


First Casualties

by AprilFeldspar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Depression, F/M, Heavy Angst, Moral Dilemmas, Past Child Abuse, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Severus Snape Lives, Severus Snape Needs a Hug, Severus Snape-centric, Slave Severus Snape, Slytherin POV, Slytherin Politics, Suicidal Thoughts, The Deathly Hallows with A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25210522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFeldspar/pseuds/AprilFeldspar
Summary: Severus Snape had always known that whichever side won the war, he would lose.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 160
Kudos: 221
Collections: Granger/snape fan fic, Severus Snape Lives!, Snape survives Nagini





	1. Reparations of War

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the slightly disputed quote "Truth is the first casualty in war".

Standing on the plush Persian rug covering the marble floor of the vestibule of Greengrass Hall, listening to the despair in Twiggy’s screams, Astoria wondered if when the winners of today wrote the history of the Second Wizarding War, as all victors were wont to do, they would say it was a confrontation between Good and Evil, Darkness and Light, and that Goodness and Light had triumphed in the end. Would they put the blame solely on the Dark Lord, stating that his wickedness had flung the world into chaos? Or would they mention if only in passing that the war had far more deep-seated causes? Perhaps they would see that as justifying the actions of the Dark Lord and of his followers? Would anyone even remember that the giants joined Voldemort because he promised them vengeance on the witches and wizards who had been colonizing their lands for centuries, driving them out of their homes, and massacring them in droves, nearly rendering them extinct? Or that the werewolves had been merely seeking their pound of flesh for age-long injustices? Would the historians of the future, descendants of the victors, even mention that not all Death Eaters had been fanatics or hateful? That some had merely been afraid or wanted to align themselves with what they thought was the winning side. It was cowardly, of course, but all so very human. Would anyone even remark that you could tell a child he was a monster only so many times until they started to believe it?

Astoria doubted it. The present offered no hope of any nuance in the would-be depictions of the war.

“Just take them, Twiggy,” snapped Daphne, wrenching herself from Astoria’s side. “She won’t rest until you do.”

Twiggy turned her saucer-sized, off green eyes on Daphne, her gaze wet with the tears she had been shedding. Twiggy just didn’t understand. Perhaps she was too old. She had been born in another world, one in which Astoria’s paternal grandfather had been younger than she was now, after all.

“Take them,” insisted Granger, her whole demeanour aiming for encouragement. “You can be free now. I’ll help you find work myself and you will be paid wages.”

Twiggy made an animal sound of grief that seep into Astoria’s bones like cold. The house elf shot one last helpless look at Daphne then gripped the colourful pair of knitted gloves into her small, wrinkled hands. It was done! Trembling Twiggy slunk to the opened oak doors, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Perhaps she understood some things, after all.

Holding her chin up, her jaw clenched tight to prevent the flow of tears, Astoria lifted her gaze to the spiral, walnut staircase curling upwards around the gilded frames housing the portraits of her ancestors. They had ceased their protests a while ago. Some of them were weeping. Astoria scowled, angry at the way they were embarrassing the family in front of the Ministry employees that were milling about cataloguing their possessions. All the sisters had been permitted to take with them was in the school trunks piled just outside the door.

Only that they weren’t headed to Hogwarts. Both Daphne and Astoria had been expelled. Daphne had not been allowed to take her N.E.W.T.s, which would guarantee her graduation. The board of governors had conditioned the continuing existence of House Slytherin on the expulsion of everyone who had fought for the Dark Lord and consequently, against the school. Unlike their parents, Daphne and Astoria had not participated in the Battle of Hogwarts. Daphne’s sole concern had been for her little sister so she had grabbed Astoria and run away, hiding until they had got word that it was safe to come out. Unfortunately, their only witnesses had been each other. The Wizengamot failed to prove that the Greengrass sisters had been on Voldemort’s side but then Daphne and Astoria also failed to prove they hadn’t been anywhere near the battlefield. So the new Headmistress and the board decided to take no chances, and threw them out both.

Daphne scratched her name on a few scrolls of parchment Percy Weasley put up for her. Astoria supposed her older sister was now the head of the Greengrass family, for what it was worth now, which was nothing. All convicted Death Easter, like their parents, had been sentenced to pay enormous war reparations with all the funds going to the reconstructions effort, and the victims of the Dark Lord’s reign. Therefore, the Ministry had confiscated everything in the vast Greengrass vault, their house, and all the valuables therein.

Head held high, Daphne returned to Astoria’s side. “Let’s go,” she said curtly.

Astoria lead the way. The heat was sweltering, the late July sun burning bright, its golden rays wrapping around their mother’s blooming rose garden stretching in front of the stern, granite manor. Astoria turned and looked at the house one last time, admiring the way the colonnades and arches reflected in the pond among the large, green leaves of the water lilies.

Twiggy was hiding behind a bush of Maiden’s Blush Great, clearly waiting for them. Astoria tried to smile at her hoping it wasn’t coming out as a forced grimace. Twiggy was a member of the family, she had helped raise her and Daphne. Unlike other Pure-Blood families, theirs had never allowed Twiggy to punish herself, and though she had never drawn a salary, she had always been welcomed to as much of the gold they had laying around the house as she liked.

Daphne put Twiggy’s tiny trunk atop her own levitating just behind her.

“We is going to our new home?” asked Twiggy, staring at the sisters blearily.

Daphne’s smile was sour. “Yes, Twiggy, we are going to our new home.” She paused as she grabbed her broom strapped to the side of trunk. “We’re going to Parkinson Park. See if you can’t bring our trunks with you, will you?”

Astoria imitated her sister, careful to take the cage of their family eagle owl with her as well. Pansy was a fairly safe bet. Her parents had never taken the Dark Mark, and though they had supported Voldemort too, they had received shorter sentences than the Greengrass spouses. Perhaps their reparations had been similarly reduced.

# # #

They found Pansy standing on the edge of the overlong, perfectly manicured lawn stretching in front of the pink marble facade of the Parkinson country house nestled among the lush Surrey Hills. Her school trunk was by her side. Astoria’s heart sank. Then again it had been foolish to hope, she supposed. Pansy had also been expelled from Hogwarts, suspected of Death Eater activity after offering to turn Harry Potter to Voldemort. Telling the Wizengamot she had only meant to save herself had not gone over well but they hadn’t managed to prove anything beyond that.

“Hello, Daphne… Astoria” said Pansy, resentment making her voice brittle. “Ruddy house elf jumped at the opportunity to bolt.”

Daphne and Astoria exchanged a look. Pansy was worse off than them, it appeared. At least, they had each other and Twiggy, who appeared with a crack and their trunks.

“I tried writing to Durmstrang, you know,” continued Pansy.

Beauxbatons was out of the question for them. The headmistress there had been friends with Dumbledore, and was the rumoured paramour of one Rubeus Hagrid.

“What did they say?” asked Daphne.

“It’s not so much what they said,” replied Pansy. “It’s what they implied. They don’t want to ruin their relationship with the new and improved British wizarding community. I guess we’re not politically palatable anywhere any more.” She snatched the day’s copy of the Prophet from atop her trunk. “That’s not all.”

Daphne took the paper from their friend. Astoria crowded at her shoulder to read.

_SEVERUS SNAPE PRONOUNCED HEALTHY ENOUGH TO STAND TRIAL_

Below the title there was photograph of their former Head of House lying motionless in a bed in the “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn Ward, his throat covered in bandages. On the record the Aurors guarding Snape claimed Rita Sweeter had sneaked in and covertly taken that picture. Off the record everyone knew nobody was concerned with protecting the privacy of Dumbledore’s killer.

“Draco said they want to make an example out of him,” added Pansy bitterly. “His trial is to be the centrepiece, the symbol of the definitive victory over the Dark Lord.”

Daphne stared forlornly ahead. Professor Snape was not easy to love but everyone in Slytherin House greatly respected him. He had cared for them in his own way, protected them in a school where they were designated the de facto villains the moment of the Sorting, and lead them to numerous victories in both Quidditch and the House Cup.

“We have to do something,” said Astoria.

“The Malfoys are putting together a defence,” answered Pansy. “They owe him for what he did for Draco.”

The Malfoys were the only ones of them who had been acquitted after the Chosen One himself had testified about the aid he had received from both Draco and Narcissa. Lucius had somehow got lumped in with his wife and son as well. They, too, had had to pay restitutions but for now they seemed to be keeping their home. Many destitute Slytherins had taken refuge there.

“We’ll go to Malfoy Manor then,” said Daphne firmly.

It appeared that they were killing two birds with one stone, finding shelter, and helping with their Professor’s defence while at it.

# # #

“I’ll never testify,” said Draco sullenly. “Not even if they threaten to reverse my acquittal.”

“You won’t have to,” interjected his father, his head tilted against the fiery rays of the setting sun. “The Boy Who Lived will. He will tell them how Severus, the much hated Bat of the Dungeons, the Bane of Gryffindor House, killed their revered Headmaster. They will bury him alive on the word of the Saviour of the Wizardkind alone.”

“What about the Unbreakable Vow he made with me?” said Narcissa Malfoy. “He was helping Draco. That must count for something.”

Draco scoffed. “They might’ve acquitted me, Mum, but how much do you believe a Death Eater’s life and soul is worth these days? If anything, it could make Professor Snape’s predicament worse.”

“Surely there are some mitigating circumstances we can invoke,” Daphne pressed on.

They were on the Manor’s back terrace enjoying tea, lemonade with ice, and Victoria sponge cake. At Daphne’s words Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a long look. Draco caught it. “If you know something we can use, you need to tell us.”

Lucius shook his head. He was still pale and sickly looking, his cheeks sunk in, but some of his old spark had returned to his eyes, and his hair hung by his face in glossy, impeccable strands. “Severus is a proud man. He would never wish for this to be known.”

“Even if it could save his life?” asked Astoria timidly.

“He’s the one who would have to live with the embarrassment afterwards,” opined Theodore Nott. “So yes, he wouldn’t want whatever this is known… even if it could save his life.”

Nott was not wrong. Public shaming was something they all had to live with, and neither would have wished to add any fresh humiliation to it.

“You don’t really think they would execute him, do you?” piped in Pansy, sounding appalled. “The dementors are gone, they all fled after the Dark Lord’s defeat. So there will be no way to perform the Kiss. I know we used to behead people before dementors were found in the Azkaban fortress but…. I thought the Prophet was only metaphorically clamouring for his head.”

Blaise gave a snort of derision. “Witch Weekly of all publications said he turned Hogwarts into a school of horrors, and presided over the beatings and torture of small children. Professor Snape was never popular but that’s nothing compared to how hated he is now. They call him the worst of the Death Eaters. And with the Golden Trio against him, he’ll be lucky if he’s not convicted to be drawn and quartered.”

“What about Archibald Prince?” inquired Narcissa. “I heard he and Gemma had returned from France.”

“They are too busy congratulating themselves for fleeing the country rather than taking a side during the war,” replied her husband disdainfully. “Believe it or not, I did reach out to them. The letter they sent back was insulting. They wouldn’t even see me…. Something about their family reputation and their girls’ position at Beauxbatons.”

Nott leaned towards Draco and asked him in a quiet voice. “Who are they talking about?”

“Professor Snape’s first cousin and his wife,” replied Draco. “On his mother’s side he is a Prince. She was disowned when she married a Muggle.”

Looks were traded among the young Slytherins but nobody said anything out loud. Everyone had known of the Professor’s Half-Blood status but the details of his lineage had always been rather few.

“So we’re all he has,” concluded Narcissa.

Astoria noted the way Draco’s pale brows knotted together, a troubled expression descending over his face. She elbowed her sister discreetly.

“What is it, Draco?” said Daphne.

His shoulders tensed and he stared ahead at the delicate china pattern of his tea cup before him. “Lately I’ve been finding myself thinking a lot on the night Dumbledore died, and I just can’t escape the feeling that something was… for the lack of a better wrong, off.”

“What do you mean?” His father sounded genuinely intrigued.

“Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard, wasn’t he?”

“Severus certainly thinks so,” Narcissa said.

“Well, isn’t it odd then that I disarmed him so quickly? And the way he begged for his life….”

Lucius’ hand clenched on the ivory head of his cane. “That’s quite enough, son. Whatever you tell us, we might be forced to repeat, should any of us be summoned to testify at Severus’ trial. Those were extraordinary circumstances that night. I’m sure they have had quite an impact on your recollection of it.”

“Perhaps,” replied Draco mildly, still looking preoccupied.

Astoria glanced down at her hands folded in the lap of her white summer robes emblazoned with strands of green leaves. Come to think of it, there was something else that was strange too. Nobody in their House had ever heard Professor Snape use the word _mudblood_ , which was a Death Eater staple, and he had always quickly stamped down on conversations that involved in, later clutching onto the flimsiest of excuses to punish the offender. Then again perhaps it meant nothing. Her own parents had never been ones for Pure-Blood supremacy. They would have been content to live peacefully with Muggle-borns and the rest for all eternity. They had only joined the Dark Lord because they have believed he would win the war, and wished to be on the right side of might when the dust settled.

Out of the corner of one eye, Astoria looked at Draco, contemplating the elegant lines of his handsome profile. Despite his father’s words, he continued to look harassed. Something about the night of Dumbledore’s death still didn’t sit right with him.

# # #

Severus’ throat hurt so badly, it was only thanks to the Occlumency walls in his head that he could keep his eyes from watering. He suspected the hospital staff was deliberately stingy with his pain potions, thinking him deserving of suffering. Healer Smethwyck had been nothing if not a consummate professional but he had been the only one thus inclined. The medic was still, however, perplexed by Severus’ near miraculous healing. Severus couldn’t blame the man. He, himself, didn’t understand how come he was not only alive but had also escaped having his throat being torn out with his vocal cords intact, and with only a manageable amount of Nagini’s venom in his veins.

By all rights, Severus should be dead. Even he had fully expected to die in the war in no small part because he had always known that whichever side would win, he would lose. Case in point, Harry Potter walked in, alive, though he, too, should have died in the war, and wearing a murderous look on his face. Severus briefly wondered if the Boy Who Lived had only agreed to this meeting to kill him. If that was true, at least, he would be spared the humiliation of a public trial.

The Auror posted at his door trailed closer to Potter, which was ridiculous. Severus was still weak, despite his surprisingly rapid recovery, and he had no wand for it had been confiscated upon being found unconscious in the Shrieking Shack after the battle of Hogwarts. Potter, no doubt, still possessed his wand. The Chosen One surveyed his former teacher with cold disdain glittering in his eyes, clearly drawing satisfaction from the bulky bandage on Severus’ neck and his gaunt and sickly appearance. Even as he tried to prop himself higher against the pillow, Severus chided himself for this yet another desperate and quite possibly futile attempt to reveal his true role in the war. Potter was out for blood. If the cooler headed Kingsley Shacklebolt hadn’t believed him, what chance would he have with the long-standing bane of his existence? Potter hated him on principle.

“I suppose you asked me here to repeat that absurd story you told the Minister,” said Potter menacingly. “I know you think I’m stupid but I can see through your ridiculously transparent attempt to save your skin just as well as Kingsley can. I’m only here to tell you it won’t work.”

Severus sneered at him. If he was doomed, he wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction of going down begging. “For once in your life, think with you head instead of your base impulses, Mr. Potter. I knew Draco had disarmed Dumbledore, that the Dark Lord could not possibly become the master of the Elder Wand even if he killed me. If so, why didn’t I tell him for no other reason than to save my life?”

Lily’s green eyes narrowed with a hatred she would never have been capable of. No, that came from James Potter. “You didn’t have the time. Remember I was there too?”

“I sent the doe,” Severus tried again, keeping his voice as cool as he could make it, though he could feel his upper lip curl. Potter was ready to fly off the handle at any given moment and it would not do to add fuel to the fire. “It’s my patronus. I sent it with the Sword of Gryffindor, and when I could not find you on the battlefield, I sent it again with Dumbledore’s letter telling you you were the final horcrux, that you had to die for the Dark Lord to be defeated.”

Potter went horribly pale, his hands clenching into fists that he raised towards Severus. “DON’T SAY _HIS_ NAME! Dark Wizards can’t conjure patronuses. We’re no longer in your class, _Professor_ ! You have no more power over me. Your reign of terror is over just like the one of Voldemort. The doe was my mother’s patronus. I don’t know, maybe it was the Resurrection Stone or maybe her love found a way to help me even from beyond the grave, but it was my mother, _her_ patronus, that gave me the sword and Dumbledore’s message.”

“If you handed me a wand, I could prove it to you. I could summon my patronus.”

Potter laughed but there was no mirth in it. “This is why you wanted to see me, isn’t it? Not to manipulate me into believing you were on our side all along but to trick me into giving you a wand so you could escape.”

Severus was a lot less angry than he could have been under the circumstances. Deep down inside he had always expected this outcome. Potter would not hear him because he didn’t want to! It was as simple as that. Besides, Severus had no proof of his role as a triple agent. He wouldn’t have been such an effective spy, if he had. And the fact of the matter remained: he _had_ killed Dumbledore. He _had_ been a Death Eater. Special circumstances aside, he was guilty. He felt guilty. And the winning side was not interested in trading in nuances. In the black-and-white world they would wish to build in the aftermath of their victory, there was no room for the grey he represented.

He sank back into the bedding, feeling no defeat, merely resignation. “I have already suggested to Kingsley the use of Veritaserum or the extraction of my memories to be viewed in Pensieve. Any, if not both, should provide ample evidence to the truth of my claims.”

Potter’s curt chortle sounded like the crackle of broken glass. “A skilled Occlumens like you can resist the effects of Veritaserum and modify memories at will. You told me so yourself, remember? I bet you regret it now.”

“At least, I have managed to teach you something. No, Mr. Potter, I find that I cannot regret as much. I also hope you never have to learn the enormity of what you are doing. From experience, the burden of guilt is never light on the shoulders.”

“You need a conscience to feel guilt,” Potter snapped. “And you have none.”

Severus gave a tired sigh. “You are still a foolish boy,” he said silkily, glad to hear himself sound almost bored. “However, of the two of us, I remain uncertain which one wishes more that you were right about my lack of a conscience… me or you.”

Potter was saved from answering by Augustus Pye, Smethwyck’s aid, finally coming in with Severus’ pain-relieving potion.

“You should be leaving him writhe in agony,” spat Potter as he passed Pye. The Auror perked up at his words and grunted in agreement. “It’s no less than he deserves.”

Severus took his potion and then stared at the ceiling waiting for the burning ache in his body to fade. He was not allowed books so there was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t even given newspapers but judging by what he had overheard from his grudging fellow patients, they were all split between singing the praises of Potter and his cohorts, and demanding his own head on a particularly sharp pole. Possibly to present it to Potter and his triumphant Gryffindors on a shiny, new silver tray. Sleep was always a popular pastime in his ward but it was not for him. His very much existing conscience wouldn’t let him slumber.

TBC


	2. The Trial of Severus Snape

“Do you hate Professor Snape?”

Blaise’s question echoed loud like the crack of a whip before the silent Wizengamot. Said teacher sat chained to the chair at the centre of the room, looking like he had just clawed his way up from death’s door. His skin had gone from sallow to waxen, deep,  dark shadows surrounding his tunnel- black eyes that were now red-rimmed and dull. His cheeks were hallowed out and he was more gaunt than ever, his nose rendered unnaturally large by comparison. There was not a drop of blood into his whitened lips. He stared ahead, not appearing to see anyone, his shoulders terse, and his head held high even as sweat matted the lank  hair at his temples. He was dressed in his typical black  robes which only served to heighten his pallor, only his cravat was gone replaced by a bandage that wrapped around his neck. 

“He’s not my teacher any more,” shot back Potter narrowing his eyes at Zabini. “Thankfully he won’t be terrorising any other students, either.”

“So you do admit? You do hate Professor Snape,” pressed Blaise with a smug grin.

“Frankly, Mr. Zabini, I don’t see the relevance of your question,” stepped in the Acting Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, from where he was perched leading the session.

Blaise kept his eyes on the witness not lifting them to meet the Minister’s gaze. “I’m simply trying to establish that Mr. Potter’s opinion of Severus Snape greatly coloured his testimony.”

“I know what I saw,” replied Potter coldly, glaring at Blaise. “Severus Snape is a Death Eater, a traitor and a murderer.”

Blaise’s smile brightened. “And you loathe all Death Eaters equally. It’s not like you testified on behalf of two of them when the trials of the supporters of the Dark Lord started, is it?” 

“There were extraneous circumstances then.”

“Would you, please, remind the Wizengamot what those were exactly?”

Potter faltered apparently sensing the trap but he had no choice but to answer. His defence of the Malfoy family was already controversial, and the Minister had not tried to curtail this particular line of questioning. Out of the corner of one eye, Blaise saw Rita Skeeter lean forward intently. 

Potter shifted in his seat before answering. “When myself, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor, Draco pretended not to recognize me. Also his mother lied to Voldemort and told him I was dead in a crucial moment of the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

Blaise fixed Harry with a calculated look. “Is that it?” 

“Draco and Mrs. Malfoy helped the cause of Light on two vital occasions. I wasn’t going to let them rot in Azkaban.” 

Blaise smirked. “That was very noble of you, Mr. Potter. Did you throw in Lucius Malfoy as a bonus? I don’t remember you mentioning how  _he_ came to the aid of your heroic cause of Light.” 

“Mr. Zabini!” admonished Shacklebolt.

Blaise held up a hand. “Can you think of at least one occasion when Professor  Snape acted in a manner that can be construed as supportive of the cause of Light…  or  of you personally?”

Potter paled, sitting back in his seat. He took an audible breath. “During my first year,” he began carefully. “When Voldemort had latched on the back of the head of Defence Against  the  Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirril, he… they jinxed my broom attempting to kill me during a Quidditch match. Snape saved  me  or at least, he tried to by muttering counter-curses.”

“I see,” replied Blaise, quickly making eye contact with Narcissa Malfoy in the audience. Both the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Lestrange had confronted Snape about the event so Mrs. Malfoy had been able to provide him with ammunition for the trial. “Was that the only time something of this kind occurred?”

Potter looked down prompting Blaise to repress a sound of delight. He had been fishing but apparently the Chosen One owed Snape far more than he liked to admit.  He was out of luck then. Blaise fully intended to unveil anything Potter might wish to remain hidden about his connection to Snape. 

“During our third year, Snape bodily came between me, my friends, and a transformed werewolf,” continued Potter, his reluctance shining in his voice. “Before that he rushed to our aid when he believed we were in danger from what we all thought was a deranged mass murderer…. And during my fifth year at Hogwarts, he warned the Order of the Phoenix of an impending attack on my godfather, Sirius Black.”

“My, my, Mr. Potter, it seems that the aid Professor Snape lent you on various occasions far surpasses a pretend lack of recognition and a lie told to the Dark Lord at one time. Yet here you are testifying _against_ Severus Snape and not on his behalf like you did for the Malfoys. So I’ll ask again: do you hate Severus Snape?” 

“I wouldn’t say I like him.”

Blaise scoffed. “You wouldn’t say you like him? Mr. Potter, shall I repeat some of the things you were overheard stating about Professor Snape  even before his alleged reveal as a traitor and murderer?” 

“Yes, I hate him,” shouted Potter, lunging upwards in his seat. “All right? I hate him, and I don’t want to see him just convicted. I want to see him dead. Are you happy now, Blaise? He killed a good man in cold blood… a man who trusted him… a man begging for his life…. And that’s the truth, my hatred of Snape notwithstanding.” 

Blaise caught movement from Snape in the periphery of his vision. Snape was staring at Potter, the look on his face odd. He was gazing at the Boy Who Lived as though he were seeing him for the first time and pitied him. Snape was much diminished from how Blaise remembered him, his robes too big for him and the chains weighing him down, yet his posture was proud, the mix of contempt and compassion in his countenance bellying some secret his former student could not begin to guess. Blaise hadn’t been allowed to confer with his former Head of House before the trial. The Aurors had cited security reasons but Blaise and the Slytherins knew better. They wanted Snape convicted, and were unwilling to take any chances of a different outcome. 

“He also saved your life several times, according to your own testimony, Mr. Potter,” added Blaise. “Surely that makes for more of a special circumstance than two little white lies.”

“Draco and Narcissa Malfoy didn’t kill anyone,” spat Potter.

Blaise smiled. “That you know of. Unless, of course, you mean to tell us you were with them every minute of every day during the long while they supported Lord Voldemort? In fact, Mr. Potter, the only reason you’re here asking for the head of Severus Snape so passionately is  your well-publicised resentment of him. H e was the only Hogwarts professor who didn’t  afford you preferential treatment  by sole virtue of being the Boy Who Lived, wasn’t he? This is your revenge on a teacher you disliked because you know you’re going to get away with it since nobody refuses the Chosen One anything  these day . Is that not true, Mr. Potter?” 

“Mr. Zabini,” thundered Shacklebolt. “Might I remind you that the witness is not the one on trial here?” 

Blaise’s head swivelled in the Minister’s direction then. “And what a trial this is, Minister! Its outcome known long before it began.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Mr. Zabini,” responded Shacklebolt testily. “This is your last warning!”

“And what are you going to do, Mr. Shacklebolt, rejoice that you finally found an excuse to throw me out of Hogwarts before I could take my N.E.W.T.s like you did with the rest of the seven-year Slytherins?” 

Snape’s dark eyes glittered malevolently at that,  and  his upper lip, which was now growing a vague bluish tint,  curled slightly. He couldn’t be saved. He knew that. Blaise knew that. All the Slytherins currently camping at Malfoy Manor knew that, though they had resolved to try.  Blaise might as well score a verbal blow against the Ministry, if nothing else.

“Aurors,” said the Minister sharply. “Remove Mr. Zambini from the face of the Wizengamot.” 

Two Aurors appeared at Blaise’s side but he wrenched his arms away before they could touch him. “I’ll  see  myself  out, thank you very much,” he said  tartly . 

The eyes of his former Head of House found him, and Snape gave Blaise a brief nod. Blaise supposed it was the closest thing to thanks he would ever receive from the older wizard. 

# # #

Draco was biting his pale lips nervously, Daphne Greengrass noticed. He didn’t want his favourite teacher convicted any more than the rest of their embattled House did. Professor Snape had protected them and shielded them from the hatred of the rest of Hogwarts. He had been there for them literally, living in the dungeons with them, listening to them, stern yet almost paternal, leading them into numerous victories in Quidditch and the House Cup. There would have been many more of those if it weren’t for Dumbledore’s penchant for awarding Gryffindor scores of House points at the very last moment on the flimsiest of excuses. 

Draco shifted in his seat, his gaze falling on Astoria who was sitting in the row before him, oblivious to the attention she was receiving. Draco seemed to draw some comfort from the presence of Daphne’s sister. Daphne glanced at Astoria too. Her little sister had really grown into a beautiful young woman, tall, slender and statuesque,  and with perfect poise. Her smooth, flawless skin had a golden undertone, and her hair cascaded past her slim shoulders in long, lush brown waves. Her features held both elegance and grace, her cheek bones  wonderfully prominent, and her deep, wide eyes the colour of sun-kissed dark ember s . It was no wonder the Malfoy heir had taken notice! Daphne’s eyes slated back to Draco.

“All those in favour of conviction?”

Daphne’s gaze rotated around the court,  quietly  counting through the forest of hands.  Surely they wouldn’t all vote for conviction, not after Blaise exposed Potter’s bias. 

“Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?”

No hands came up. Only a few flashbulbs went off, while Quick-Quote quills were scribbling furiously high up in the air above the press bench. 

“Those in favour of granting the accused mitigating circumstances?” 

Again nobody moved. More flashbulbs went off interrupting the scratching of quills on parchment. 

“Severus Tobias Snape, it is the will of the Wizengamot that you are convicted of high treason, Death Eater related activities, seditious libel, and murder. You are to remain incarcerated in Azkaban Prison for the remainder of your earthly days. However, as Azkaban stands without guards at the present moment, alternative provisions will be made for you to serve your penance along with the others of your kind, until such time as the Auror Office reconstitutes its forces enough for them to assure the security of the fortress.” 

The bang of the gavel the Minister had struck with force resonated in the momentary silent chamber. Then everyone sprang into motion at once. Kingsley Shacklebolt left his lofty seat and the room. The reporters rolled forward as a wave shouting questions at Snape. More flashbulbs went off. On the benches opposite  the Slytherins, Potter and his friends hugged each other. Daphne caught Mcgonagall’s eye briefly and she thought she saw her chin tremble a little, as though she were struggling to hold back tears, no doubt moved by the conviction of the killer of her friend and mentor. Judging by the Daily Prophet, they had truly lost Dumbledore: the Headmaster’s office had been destroyed during the battle and all the portraits therein had been severely damaged. It would take years for them to  be restored and some might never speak again. 

“We should have told Blaise about Severus’ parents,” whispered Narcissa furtively to her husband.

“No, look at them! Nothing could have swayed them. All we would’ve accomplished was heaping further humiliation upon Severus.”

“Still,” replied Narcissa venomously. “It would have served these wretched blood traitors and their ilk right… learning what their precious Muggles can be capable of.”

The Malfoys offered no other comment on the situation, and Daphne’s found her gaze drawn to the only still sitting figure on the Gryffindor side: the current Head of what was left of their House, the acceptable Slytherin, Horace Slughorn. He seemed lost and forlorn as he stared at Snape being unchained by the Aurors only to be shackled again and then dragged away. Daphne didn’t blame Slughorn. Neither did anyone else in their House. It was Slytherin like to want to survive and thrive through any means necessary. Slughorn had backed the right side and came up on top in the end. It would have been foolish for him to throw it all away in order to stand with his besieged fellow House members. 

# # #

Daphne ran the elegant ivory brush on loan from Narcissa Malfoy through her sister’s chocolate brown tresses. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful girl,” she said softly, meeting Astoria’s gaze in the vanity mirror, at which her sister was seated. The tall, oval mirror had a gilded ebony frame. “ Others have begun to notice too… Draco, for example.”

“Draco?” Astoria sounded surprised. “What do you mean?” 

Daphne rested a hand on the carved back of Astoria’s chair. “That he only has eyes for you of late.” 

Astoria started, looking at her sister in the mirror quizzically. “But I thought he was with Pansy.”

“Oh, no.” She began braiding Astoria’s hair, thinking to arrange it in a crown of plaits around her face, leaving only a few selected locks to fall artfully to her delicately drawn neck. “That was a long time ago during school. Pansy and Draco are nothing more than friends now.” She grasped one of the handful of gold hair pins ending with a butterfly of small pearls from the table, and wove it into Astoria’s hair. The pins were among the jewellery she and her sister had sawn into the seam of their robes before leaving their house, correctly banking on the fact that Aurors would not stoop so low as to search their persons. It was all they had left of their family’s once fabulous fortune.

“That may be true,” Astoria was saying in her sweet, melodic voice that Daphne had no doubt Draco enjoyed hearing. “But how can I think of love at a time such as this?” 

“You needn’t think of love, little sister,” answered Daphne, starting on a second plait. “You need only think on our situation. Our parents are gone and we will never see them. We have no home, no money, and no school in Europe would receive us. We are entirely dependant on the charity of the Malfoy family.”

“Mrs. Malfoy said we could stay as long as we like.”

“Mrs. Malfoy has been most obliging but surely her family would want to have their house back to themselves at some point. And we have nowhere to go, no means to gain employment. But the Malfoys kept a portion of their money and, of course, the manor.”

Astoria frowned at her in the mirror. “You can’t mean…?”

“You’re no longer a child, Astoria. You will be of age in December. You need to think of the future. Like I said, the Malfoys still have some money. I’m certain Draco would not be opposed if his wife wanted to travel to America to study. Perhaps Ilvermorny is far enough not to care they might damage their relations with the British Ministry of Magic if they admitted the children of Death Eaters.”

Astoria shook her head, staying Daphne’s hand, a golden pin trapped between her long, pale fingers. “But I don’t even know Draco…. I don’t love him.”

“If I could marry him in your stead, little sister, I would but he fancies you… and he would fancy you a lot more if you gave him reason to believe you return his feelings… if you paid more attention to him.”

There were tears blooming in Astoria’s wondrous brown eyes. Daphne wrapped a braid tightly around the back of her head. “I… I don’t want to…. Please, don’t make me, Daphne!”

Daphne gave her sister a stern look, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “We have no choice, Tori! We have nothing but our Pure-Blood status and place among the Sacred Twenty-Eight to recommend us, and neither  hold the value they once did. But in this house they still matter so Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy won’t be  against it … and Draco likes you. Under the proper circumstances he could even fall in love with you. You are so beautiful and so pleasant…. There is no reason he shouldn’t! You have to do this, not because I’m asking you, but because if you do not, we would end up begging on the streets. What of Twiggy then? We are in shape to keep on a house elf.”

“The Malfoys punish their house elves,” shot Astoria acidly.

“I’m sure you could persuade Draco to be lenient, though.” She grasped Astoria’s temples, directing her to look at herself in the mirror. “There. You look enchanting like this and so grown up.” 

Astoria’s gaze was dull and unfocused. “What about Pansy? She’s your friend.”

“I’ll speak to her. Pansy’s a Slytherin, though. She’d understand that we took advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself. She would’ve done the same if she were in our shoes. Now… what do you say of Mother’s emerald and pearl earrings? They’ll go lovely with your hair pins.” She tweaked one of said pins as it stuck out of the side of the braid laid over the left side of Astoria’s head. 

The earrings were overly large, tear shaped emeralds sitting in a halo of tiny diamonds and finishing with suspended pear l  drops. Astoria had often admired them on their mother but never worn them before, Daphne knew. It was painful to see her little sister with them. Astoria looked a lot like their mother, while Daphne, who was fair-skinned, blond-haired and green-eyed, took after their paternal grandmother. Giving Astoria the earrings brought about a sense of finality, like it was only now sinking in that they were truly on their own, that their parents were never coming back. 

Daphne lowered herself by her sister’s chair , and put an arm around her shoulders from behind. “I’m sorry, Tori. I wish there was another way… I really do.”

A loud knock on the door saved Astoria from having to answer. Daphne recognized Pansy’s firm hand. Pansy stood in the hallway, as white as the smooth wall behind her, holding the latest copy of the Quibbler between trembling fingers. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Daphne, as she admitted her old school friend in. Would there ever be an end to the slew of bad news?

Astoria turned away from the mirror, eyeing Daphne and Pansy warily. “What’s happened?”

Pansy shook her head and handed Daphne the tabloid without another word. Daphne scanned the bombastically titled first page quickly then extended the paper to Astoria. 

“How can we be sure it’s true?” inquired Daphne, though her heart was seizing with cold dread in her chest. “It’s the Quibbler after all? Need I remind you of some of rubbish they’ve published over the years?”

Pansy’s lips pressed together nervously, a grimace of disgust twisted her newly elongated face. Gone was the pug look of her childhood. Much like Astoria she had grown too and quite to a pleasing effect. “That was ages ago. They haven’t written a single thing about Crumple-Horned Snorhacks and made-up Celestina Warbeck quotes since we were in our fifth year at Hogwarts. Now they’ve more readers than the Prophet. Besides, Xenophilius Lovegood’s daughter is friends with the Golden Trio and dating Neville Longbottom, the Serpent Slayer.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “If the fact that Longbottom’s a war hero and one half of a power couple with Looney Lovegood doesn’t prove that we live in a mad world where anything’s possible, I don’t know what does.”

Pansy snickered. 

“They can’t do this,” said Astoria, waving up the newspaper. 

“Says who?” asked Pansy and Daphne at the same time.

“They’re supposed to be the good ones,” countered Astoria. “The side of Light, remember?”

Daphne turned to her still naive little sister with a grim smile. “They also won  the war. They can do anything they want.”

“What’s going to happen with our parents?”

Pansy sighed. “I keep telling myself this isn’t any worse than being stuck in Azkaban with the dementors. Many went insane within a year back then.” 

“Being at the mercy of who-knows-who with a grudge is hardly an improvement,” commented Daphne.

“It says here it’s only a temporary situation… until they can train enough Aurors to replace those who died in the war so they can allocate some to guard Azkaban,” pointed out Astoria.

“Auror training takes three years,” replied Pansy. “And the Ministry will need more of them than ever before… to staff the Office as well as do guard duty in Azkaban. Remember the prison will be populated to capacity for the first time in its history. Our parents could be stuck as glorified slaves for three, six, even twelve years before they’re thrown into that dreary fortress.”

Astoria tossed the Quibbler on the vanity table. Her mother’s earrings clinked with the violence of the move. “Maybe we could find out where they’ll be placed… and try to visit… see them even if it’s only from a distance.” 

Pansy’s look was painfully expectant too. Though she knew it was foolish to allow them to hope thusly, Daphne stifled the sigh rising to her lips. “We should talk to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Perhaps they still have a few contacts at the Ministry. Maybe someone would be willing to risk talking to them and we could glean something.” 

TBC


	3. The Wand of Eileen Prince

_Severus held his breath as he saw his mother take out an object that he had never witnessed her use before: her wand. It looked to be thirteen and a half inches long, black, plain, and unadorned._

“ _Is that ebony, Mum?” he asked in a low voice, unsure whether his mother would answer._

_But then something magical happened: light bloomed into his mother’s usually vacant eyes, and a tiny smile curved the corners of her thin lips. He could swear a_ _hint of pride illuminated her normally sullen features. She could almost be beautiful like this, his mother. Severus’ heart began to beat faster. It seemed that the mere proximity to the wizarding world had the power to restore his Mum._

“ _Yes,” she said and the light in her eyes dimmed, her expression_ _swinging_ _to distant. “It’s ebony with a dragon_ _heart_ _string core_ _._ _Dragon heartstring cores are common in Slytherin House.”_

_She touched the tip of her wand to the bricks and they floated open admitting them into Diagon Alley. Lily had been there the week prior, and her family had made a trip out of it, her father taking a few days off from work, and they visited London in addition to getting their magical daughter school supplies. Severus had already been to Lily’s house, and marvelled at her swishy willow wand, her brand new school books, the odes of parchment, the ink and the quill_ _s_ _, and her graceful_ _snowy owl_ _pet._

_Severus and his mother couldn’t afford more than one journey to London so they had decided to get his supplies on the very morning he was due on the Hogwarts Express. Besides, his mother had already taken care of a few things: she had patched up and modified her own old school robes to fit Severus_ _, and_ _scrubbed clean her rusty cauldron that had seen no use in as longs as her son could remember._ _She had done the same for a pair of brass scales that had gone sticky, and_ _bought a few glass phials from the pharmacy in Cokeworth._

“ _They are cheaper than anything we could find on Diagon Alley,” she had explained._

_Diagon Alley was anything Severus had dreamt of and more. The sinewy cobbled street twisted along a seemingly endless line of_ _colourful_ _shops that sold everything a wizard could possibly need: robes, cauldrons, potions ingredients, parchment and ink, and books. Severus broke away from his mother to sprint_ _towards_ _at the tall window revealing an interior of spells books and the like._ _He stared and stared, drinking in the sight._ _Severus loved to read and learn new things. He also really good at it_ _too_ _. In fact, if he didn’t get beat up so much, he had no doubt he would even like Muggle school. That didn’t matter to him now. In less than three hours he would_ _be_ _on the Hogwarts Express with Lily and everything would be different for him at the_ _wizarding_ _school._

_His mother grasped him above his right elbow and wrenched him away. “That’s Flourish and Blotts,” she explained. “We’d have to sell our whole house to buy you books_ _from_ _there.”_

_His mother had scrapped and scrimped and hidden money away from his father to save enough to get him the meagre supplies they could afford. That didn’t bother Severus that much,_ _however_ _. He was used to_ _deprivation,_ _patched up, old clothes passed to him from his mother, and cracked shoes and boots that let the cold, the rainwater and the snow in, drenching his feet. He was used to yellowed old books that had pages falling out of them, and shoddy writing implements. None of that counted. All that mattered was that he was finally going to Hogwarts, and that he was about to escape all the injustices and the persecution of his childhood years._

_His mother’s hand shook when she handed out a few greasy Muggle money bills to the goblin in charge of exchange. Severus was looking around curiously._

“ _My family has a vault here,” muttered his mother under her breath, her voice so low and unsteady Severus had to strain to hear her. “Piles and piles of gold and silver and glittering gems as far as the eye can see… and I can’t afford to buy my son new robes.”_

_When he had been younger, his mother had used to tell him stories that were more fantastic to his ears than the existence of magic and everything that came with it. She told him of a large, elegant mansion where she had grown up amid plentiful food, fancy robes, fast broomsticks, and serving house elves._

_She took a small stack of sickles and knuts from the goblin without thanking him. Severus stood on tiptoes, fascinated by the notion of wizarding money._

“ _Telescope, we have to get you new…. No way around it, I’m afraid,” murmured his mother once they were back in the street._

_Diagon Alley was bustling with Hogwarts students just like Severus, some of them already wearing their robes. Since it was a sweltering morning, many of them were carrying_ _lush-looking_ _cones of ice cream. Severus, who was already parched and sweaty, felt his mouth_ _water_ _but he clamped down on_ _the_ _craving. He could buy a book for price of a scone, he suspected. He knew where the other children had got them: at_ _Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour._ _Lily had told him all about it; her parents had bought her and Petunia just about every flavour on sale so they could taste them all. Lily had liked something called stracciatella best._

_They rifled through the Second-Hand Bookstore but bought Severus’ textbooks from a pruney witch selling them on the side of the road. Her selection looked far worse than what the store had, pages sticking out at odd angles from well worn covers on which the titles were barely visible if at all, but they cost significantly less. When that was done, his mother pulled him in an alcove where they could speak away from the agitation of the alley._

“ _Normally you would get your wand at Ollivander’s and it would choose you because the wand always chooses the wizard but… it will also cost more than all your second year books… and I’m not sure I can gather back all the money in time. So….” She thrust her own wand unceremoniously at him. “Casting anything with the wand of another witch or wizard is hard enough but you were always such a bright boy. I’m sure you’ll manage.”_

_Severus looked at the wand then up at the tears welling in her mother’s dark eyes. There were spots of crimson on her sallow cheeks. “It’s all right, Mum,” he said softly. “Don’t cry! I’m going to Hogwarts now. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”_

_His mother didn’t reply. Instead she pressed the plain, black wand that had once chosen her into his palm before she wound her long, bony arms around her son’s small for his age body. It was awkward. His mother was not in the habit of hugging him often but still Severus burrowed against her, hiding his face against the scratchy material of her dress. She smelled of home: dirt, smoke, and overcooked vegetables._

Severus froze feeling a hand on his shoulder. Healer Smethwyck was looking down at him, compassion marring his usually stoic features. Severus blinked the sleep from his eyes, and waited tersely for the other wizard to remove his hand, which Smethwyck did a moment later.

“Mr. Snape,” said the medic formally. “It’s time.”

Severus nodded without a word and got up. His bandages were removed and Smethwyck prodded at his injury with a few diagnostic spells. The bite mark itched and ached but Severus knew it was mostly healed, the venom entirely purged from his system.

“I should like to have a few potions send over with you,” said Smethwyck blandly.

They both knew Severus might not be permitted to take them but neither commented on that. Then Smethwyck pronounced him healthy enough to leave the hospital and left, leaving Severus to his morning ablutions. Severus dressed in his black teacher’s robes that had been sent over from Hogwarts. They still hang rather loosely on his emaciated body, and the cravat scratched at the criss-crossing of jagged, angry red scars on the side of his neck.

The Aurors shackled him and took him to the Ministry. Unsurprisingly both Potter and the Ministry were present at the Department of Magical Reinforcement. So was Minerva Mcgonagall. Severus averted his eyes, unsure of how the sight of her made him feel. He had admired her ever since his first Transfiguration class and had sought her friendship after they had become colleagues but he had never been particularly good with people. Besides, they had been Heads of rival Houses so they had never progressed past casually friendly co-workers. He wanted to blame her for her role in all this but found that he couldn’t. She didn’t know and even if she did, what difference would it make? He _had_ killed Dumbledore, her mentor and genuine, close friend.

After they all crowded in an open space at the Auror Headquarters, Kingsley Shacklebolt read the litany of his conviction once more in a formal, sonorous voice. Then one of the Aurors produced Severus’ wand, his mother’s thirteen and a half inches, ebony wand with a dragon heartstring core wand. Plain, black and unadorned. Kingsley lifted the wand, and for the first time since he had realised the reality he had woken to, Severus felt inclined to beg. Kingsley grabbed the wand by its ends and it snapped, the snick impossibly loud in Severus’ ears, its impact resonating in the marrow of his bones. It was like his mother was dying a second time before his very eyes.

What happened next was hazy. Kingsley took out a formal looking scroll and began reading again.

“Since the use of dementors as guards of Azkaban Prison was deemed inhumane by the Ministry of Magic, Aurors are from now on to provide security for the fortress. However, as the Auror Office was severely depleted during the war, it is the Ministry’s resolution that all convicted Death Eaters and their associates would complete the first leg of their penance by serving in the household of those they have victimized. Once Azkaban will be restaffed with Aurors, said Death Eaters and their associates will be remitted to holding in accordance to their convictions by the Wizengamot. For this purpose their magic will be suppressed and bound to the control of head of the household where they are due to serve.”

Kingsley waved his wand and levitated a thick, narrow circlet of clear metal in the air before Severus. Another flicker of his wand and Severus’ cravat was folded apart. The circlet, which looked suspiciously like a collar, enclosed around the base of his neck, the metal cool against his skin and chafing at his still irritated scar. Gritting his teeth, even as every muscle in his body locked in place, cold sweat blossoming on his back and nape, Severus focused on refusing to wince. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. It was bad enough that he was being publicly collared like a leashed dog, which he supposed that from their point of view, he was. Him and the rest of the Dark Lord’s supporters. Chained dogs about to be de-toothed and declawed.

The Minister then touched the tip of his wand to the front of the collar, and something like electric current shot through Severus’ spine. The pain was immediate and blinding but it stopped as soon as it came. Something else curled within him in its place, an emptiness that settled in the pit of his stomach before unfurling in his chest. It was gone! The magic that had been singing in his veins for as long as he could remember was not there any more. Even if his wand had not been snapped, it would do him no good. It would be nothing more than a dead stick in his hand. His mother’s wand… gone like her… gone like his magic. He would never cast a spell ever again, he would never wave a fire to roaring life or a door to slamming shut, he would never conjure, enchant or charm, he would never summon his patronus. Never again! Never again would he see the silver doe that spoke of his secret, heart-rending love for Lily. Her son had helped take it all away from him. He might never again so much as brew a potion. The one thing thing poverty, his father’s whip, his Muggle school bullies’ fists and the Marauders’ hexes and attempted murder, the loss of Lily, his arduous service to two masters, and even the murder of Dumbledore had not been able to take away from him, that one thing was now gone. Gone like his mother, gone like Lily, gone like Dumbledore, gone like his hopes and dreams from the day he had first set foot on the Hogwarts Express.

Severus wavered on his feet and dug his nails into his palms. He would not collapse. He would not give them the satisfaction, whatever little the tiny remnant of his pride was worth. He held no delusions that he would be divested of that as well, and soon in whatever wretched house he would be sentenced to play the role of a glorified slave.

_Was it worth it?,_ he thought, filled with sudden, bile infested hatred for his eleven-year old self. His mind felt strangely blank, devoid of his Occlumency walls for the first time in years, decades even. _You stupid child! Were your foolish hopes and dreams worth it? Were they worth Lily? Were they worth this?_

# # #

Hermione was pacing, agitation driving her steps, as Ron watched rather placidly. He was used to this by now.

“It’s slavery,” she said for the umpteenth time in the past half and hour. “Plain and simple. There’s no way to dress this up. No matter what words the law employs to make it sound respectable, it’s just not! It’s wrong! I mean, isn’t it enough that we enslave house elves? As if that wasn’t hideous enough, now we put people in bondage too! It’s outrageous? What was Kingsley thinking?”

“Probably that Death Eaters and the like brought it down on themselves,” opined Ron quietly.

Hermione whirled on him, her eyes scintillating. “How can you say that, Ronald?”

“Don’t you remember what they did during the war? The raids, the tortures and the killings. What they did to Hogwarts students who wouldn’t use Unforgivable Curses on eleven-year olds? How they put Muggle-borns into Azkaban with the dementors? We spared them that! Because that wouldn’t be right. Besides, this is just temporary… until we have enough Aurors to guard Azkaban.”

“We’re supposed to be better… to be the side of Light. We’re not supposed to put witches and wizards in collars, and bring them into our homes as slaves.”

Ron shifted his weight from one leg to another, as he looked down at the scuffed dragon hide of his shoes. “Look, ‘Mione, if you don’t want a Death Eater tethered to your house, you shouldn’t get one. Nobody’s making you.”

That turned out to be the tremendously wrong thing to say. “Honestly, Ronald! What kind of an argument is that? You might as well be saying if you don’t like murder, don’t commit one!”

Ron held up a placating hand. “I don’t know, Hermione…. You’re the one who’s good at this legality stuff. I’m just saying…. I mean, even I don’t know what I’m saying, you know?”

Her smile was cool and brittle, and she rolled her eyes before replying. “That’s obvious! Maybe the wizarding world is so inured to house elves enslavement that applying it to people just seemed like the natural next step. That’s why nobody’s fazed by this… not even good people like you and Harry. The Prophet was even lauding the Ministry’s initiative but then they always do this. For Merlin’s sake, they called for a widespread hunt of vampires who are fellow sentient beings!”

“Who survive by draining the blood of the living,” pointed out Ron, which earned him a death glare from Hermione. He sighed and tried to offer her a conciliatory smile. “All I’m saying, ‘Mione, is that you can’t save everyone. You have to pick: the house elves or the Death Eaters. I, for one, vote for Dobby’s people.”

Hermione’s glare did not ease up. “There aren’t even any provisions ensuring that… that the… _servants_ won’t be abused by the families they’re placed with.”

It was Ron’s turn to scowl. “What do you want the Ministry to do, Hermione? Send Aurors they don’t have into people’s home to check on those poor, sensitive Death Eaters? Besides, it’s our side they’ll end up with. Nobody’s going to do anything to them!”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Hermione tartly.

Ron’s frown deepened, as he met her gaze steadily. “Because we’re the side of Light, remember? And it’s not like the Ministry decided to saddle people with Death Eaters so they could be abused. How many times have you talked to Percy and Dad about this? The Auror Office was in a bind. They couldn’t put Voldemort’s supporters into Azkaban because there are no guards there any more, and they couldn’t let them wander around free for the obvious reason. They had to think of something and quick because the trials are ending. This is the best they could come up with for now. If you want to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for the poor sods who’ll end up having to babysit the spawn of Evil!”

“Nobody will end up doing anything they don’t want to,” protested Hermione. “You have to put yourself on a list to _host_ a convicted wizard.” She paused, drawing breath audibly, her demeanour switching to suspicious. “Nobody in your family signed up for it, did they?”

“No, Hermione, the last thing we need right now is a Death Eater hanging around. Can you see any of them de-gnoming the garden at the Burrow or taking a leisurely stroll by Shell Cottage?”

Hermione’s brows drew together, her expression growing thoughtful. “I wonder what would happen to Professor Snape.”

“Something far better than he deserves, I’m sure,” groused Ron. “Too bad the dementors aren’t around any more. He would’ve been a prime candidate for the Kiss!”

“Whoever he’ll end up with, he’s bound to be abused. Everyone hates him so much more than any other Death Eater.”

“Honestly, ‘Mione, what’s with you and the Greasy Git? The house elves, I understand, but him? How can you keep defending him after everything he’s done?”

“He was our teacher, Ronald,” she snapped.

“He was also and still is a Death Eater, a traitor to the Order, Dumbledore’s murderer and Headmaster of Hogwarts at a time when there were dementors posted on the grounds. The same dementors we wouldn’t dream of letting anywhere near those fragile Death Eaters you’re suddenly so keen on defending. Do I have to remind you of the horror stories Neville and Ginny told us of his regime?”

Hermione didn’t seem to hear him, rocking back on the balls of his feet. “If I could save just one!”

“No,” shouted Ron with a sinking feeling. “What are you thinking, ‘Mione? Hermione!”

“My parents’ house is empty,” she said, her voice sounding as though coming from far away. “They’re still in Australia. I don’t think it’d be safe for me to bring them back and restore their memory until we can be absolutely sure all of Voldemort’s supporters are caught.”

“Of all the misguided things you could consider! This is not some hats you’re knitting, Hermione. You’re thinking of bringing the most dangerous Death Eater alive into your parents’ home.”

Hermione shot him an ugly look. “They’re suppressing his magic as we speak. What can he do?”

“You live in your parents’ house too.” Ron was yelling again. “He could smother you with a pillow in your sleep.”

“I’ll put wards on my bedroom door,” she fired back, sounding more and more determined with each word she was uttering. “I’m not letting a Hogwarts professor be enslaved and abused… not while I can help it! Besides, haven’t you just said this was temporary? It’ll be shorter than anyone thinks. I’m due to start work for the Ministry this month anyway. I’ll find a way to overturn this law.”

“Yes,” replied Ron with a dirty look of his own. “Because we must protect those defenceless Death Eaters at all costs.”

“They ARE defenceless without their wands and their magic, Ronald!” she tossed over her shoulder as she started towards the door to Arthur Weasley’s office. Mr. Weasley and his colleague were out in the field. The surviving Ministry employees had a hard time keeping up with the tremendous amount of work piling up in the aftermath of the war.

“They did the exact same thing to Muggle-borns after Voldemort had taken over the Ministry,” Ron reminded her.

But Hermione was already gone, her hurried footsteps echoing through the opened door and into Mr. Weasley’s miniscule office. Ron leaned back against a desk overflowing with files and parchments and sighed.

TBC


	4. The Road to Hell

The head-ache didn’t start immediately. It grew in increments as though his mind was  only  slowly reali s ing the blankness left behind as his Occlumency walls vanished once his magic was bound. With them went the entire construct of false memories Severus had spent years creating and honing painstakingly in order to fool the world’s greatest Legilimens. The magic of the mind had been with him for most of his life.  He had been practising and experimenting with it since before Hogwarts putting brick on top of brick of a  careful construct much like a vast fortress that  had sprawled to occupy every crevice of his brain  in some shape or form. N ow all of the sudden it was gone.

It hadn’t been a gradual process but a brusque emptying of the spider’s web that  ran through his mind together  like an ample network. The fraudulent reminiscence s he had used to hide his true allegiance from the Dark Lord had simply dissolved, and  in  its place rushed the real thing like a mountain torrent turning into a flood  and sweeping through village leaving nothing but pain and destruction in its wake. 

He felt himself falling… falling… falling like Dumbledore once did when Severus had killed him…. And he landed on his knees before the Headmaster. 

_You disgust me!_

_What would you give me?_

_You must be the one to kill me, Severus. It is the only way._

_Severus… please…_

He slid further into his shredding mind as though down a very long and dark tunnel. And he saw Charity Burbage pleading with him for help, her eyes filled with anguish and despair….

_Severus… please…._

He was flying… trying to save Remus Lupin of all people, risking his cover for it, using his own spell, Sectum Sempra, trying and failing, missing….

_How many men and women have you watched die?_

_Lately, only those whom I could not save._

His mother was ushering up the stairs and into the Hogwarts Express, her expression as sullen and as shuttered as ever, her eyes empty of feeling. Severus wanted to reach for her, wanted to say something but no words made it to his lips.

“ _You’d better hurry,” she said as the train whistled._

“… _who want_ _s_ _to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?”_

He was seeing the transformed werewolf and his  own death in the beast’s  yellowy  eyes. For a moment he was paralysed, fully aware that he would die, that the killing blow was coming, but unable to move. 

Pain shot up his arm. His father’s thick, grubby fingers were digging into his lower arm, making the fragile bones jostle and crack. Severus saw the whip in his father’s free hand, and realised that this would be bad. His mother was already on the floor, blood pouring from her nose, wailing softly, pitifully. 

Her hair  was like living fire, glittering in the sunlight, and she  was the most beautiful creature Severus had ever seen. Lily like the flower. He had heard the other girl, whom he assumed was her sister, call her that. Lily like the flower. And miracle of all miracles she was like him. And her hands were small and white like snow. They didn’t look like hands that could hurt him. Maybe he could talk to her. 

_After all this time?_

_Always!_

He was lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, apparently doomed to die there after all, and Lily’s son was by his side. Severus had done his duty. He had protected the boy. He had sent him the letter Dumbledore had left behind explaining that he was to die, that  he had been brought up like a lamb to the slaughter, kept alive only so that he could die at the proper moment. Dumbledore hadn’t put all that in his parting letter to Harry Potter, of course. The envelop hadn’t been sealed, after all, and Severus had read the meaninglessly encouraging platitudes the Headmaster had left behind. He had read it and understood. T hey were all nothing but puppets in the Headmaster’s grand plan to defeat Voldemort from beyond the grave. Severus should be furious. For dying  there of all place. For the trap Dumbledore had laid for him with the Elder Wand. For the utter unfairness of it all. But all he felt was relief. In a moment it would be over. He hoped there was nothing waiting for him on the other side. He hoped he could finally cease to exist. 

_Look… at… me…._

_I wish… I wish I were dead…._

He would get his wish at long last. After thirty-eight years of being denied absolutely everything he had ever dared want, he would finally have one wish granted  to him . It was ugly, painful and unfair but then when had he ever expected anything else? But it would happen. It would finally be over. He would finally be beyond pain and despair,  and above all, he would finally be beyond hope… the cruellest thing he had ever felt. 

The pain was a maelstrom swirling inside of him, spreading like fiery lead through his veins. His head felt unnaturally heavy and he frowned, worsening the terrible head-ached, to keep his eyes from watering. He didn’t want to give Potter, the Minister and Aurors the satisfaction of having made him cry. Of having broken him. The Dark Lord had never broken him. These pitiful excuses for wizards wouldn’t do it, either.

He had another flash before his vision could properly focus on the present again. He saw himself on the floor of 12 Grimmauld Place sobbing, clutching Lily’s photograph and the letter with her love to his chest. Mourning her. Mourning Dumbledore whom he both loved and hated. Mourning his own, now torn beyond repair, soul. 

There was a commotion as a familiar mane of bushy, brown hair burst through the door and skidded to a halt somewhere between Kingsley and Mcgonagall. Granger was saying something but Severus found it  impossible to make our her words . He dug his nails into his palms as his stomach roiled, acid rising to his throat. Oh no, he wouldn’t throw up now, would he? Potter’s voice had gone shrill. What fresh torment was Granger going to inflict upon him? There seemed to be a quarrel that was starting. His ears were ringing and  still  he couldn’t  decipher what they were all saying when their lips moved . Memories were running rampant through his suddenly disorganized mind, filling up the spaces previously taken by his Occlumency construction. He couldn’t seem to be able to snatch a single thought upon which to concentrate. 

_Slytherin!_

The blasted Sorting Hat was bellowing inside his head. 

_I sometimes think we Sort too soon…._

Severus’ insides had turned to ice upon hearing that pronouncement because he had  comprehended that very instant that he could never amount to anything in Dumbledore’s eyes unless the Headmaster elevated him to an honorary Gryffindor in his mind. Otherwise he was branded. In the end, it wasn’t his pretend Gryffindor status that Dumbledore had called upon but the worst of Slytherin, the worst Severus could have become: a killer. It had damned him the second he had agreed to it. Even without magic he could still feel the tear in his soul. 

He blinked, feeling the cold sweat ran down his back and temples, matting his hair. Granger stood beside him her wand in her hand. She still had her wand and her magic. A horrible sense of foreboding sliced through Severus. Potter looked sullen, Mcgonagall grave, and Kinsley resolute. Ron Weasley, who was striding up to them, was disgruntled. Granger turned and shot  Weasley a warning glare. Then she faced Severus once more, her mien expectant.  _No_ , Severus thought desperately.  _Not her!_ There was an attempt at reassurance in her eyes. She would be the worst of them all because she was the most lacking in self-awareness. 

Being given to someone who would abuse and torture him, he could withstand. Severus had been in some sort of pain most of his life. From his father, from the boys at his Muggle school, from the Marauders, from the Dark Lord…. But Granger, she was something else. She could hurt him in ways that would never show, new ways he had yet to experience, and she wouldn’t even know she was doing it. Besides, her wand work was superlative. Others might miss or do a shoddy job at least from time to time but she wouldn’t. She  would hit her target every time. 

Granger touched her wand to the front of his collar. Magic fluttered through him briefly, the touch of an alien core, but still it filled him with such yearning, it shortly overcame the pain and the horror at this new development. 

Granger leaned towards him. She smelled soapy, clean. “It’s going to be all right, Professor,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”

Instinctively his upper lip curled and he sneered, anger rippling through him. If still had his wand, he would have hexed her on the spot. She was no longer his student. He could do it now. The shock was instantaneous, coursing through him from where his own magical core used to be, coiling in his guts like electricity. It wasn’t painful exactly, instead it felt like a chain being yanked back in the very depths of his being, which he supposed was accurate. 

As the true magnitude of his predicament began to occur to him, Kingsley began to speak again.

“The official papers will be sent to you via owl post by the end of the week the latest, Hermione. That should clear up all the detail but if you have any questions, you can always direct them to the Auror Office. Until then know that you are absolutely safe. Not only is the ban on his magic unbreakable without the Ministry incantation, but there is a tracking charm in the collar that’s now connected to your wand. You’ll always know where he is. Just in case the Aurors will place wards around your house making it impossible for him to leave.”

“She’ll still be locked in with him,” protested Potter.

“He can’t harm her,” assured Kingsley forcefully. “We haven’t forgotten with whom we are dealing, Harry, don’t worry! None of them can so much as think about harming their hosts. The collar was bewitched to trigger an instant response.”

“Pain?” snapped Granger. “That’s barbaric!”

“What did you think this was, you silly little girl?” Severus barked. “An exercise in the humane treatment of the Death Eaters?” 

“It’s not pain, it’s a correction,” said one of the Auror impassibly. “It works the same for obedience.”

“You mean he can’t disobey me?” shouted Granger, sounding genuinely revolted. 

“I hope you always wanted a slave because you have one now,” snarled Severus. The _correction_ activated again as his impotent fury sent particularly violent imagery rolling through his imagination. He didn’t care. The look of dismayed horror on Granger’s face made it all worth it.

Granger looked from the Aurors to the Minister. Mcgonagall didn’t appear too happy, either.

“Take it off,” Granger demanded. 

“You have to understand, Hermione,” said Kingsley reasonably. “This is the secondary function of the collar aside from snuffing magic. It was built in it upon design. These are some of the most dangerous people alive, and we simply cannot afford to take any risks with them. You would not want to be suffocated in your sleep, would you now? Of course, you can moderate all the enchantments with your spell. The collar is bound to your wand and your wand alone. Besides, I’m sure nobody would blame you if you wanted to withdraw your application.”

“Yeah, ‘Mione,” pipe in Weasley. “You know what he and his lot are capable of. You’ll be sleeping under the same roof for Merlin’s sake. You can’t take any chances.” 

Potter stepped closer to Granger. “Really, Hermione, if you don’t want him any more, it’d be perfectly understandable. It’s not like it was with S.P.E.W. You said that goblins can take care of  themselves , remember? Well, Death Eaters aren’t exactly helpless, are they? They don’t need you to protect  them .”

“Especially not _Snape_!” Weasley spat out Severus’ family name like it was an obscenity. 

“Yes, Miss Granger,” said Severus himself nastily. “Do us all a favour and don’t protect me!”

But Granger merely shot her friends a reproachful look before eyeing the Minister again. “No, I don’t want to take back my application.” She turned to Severus again. “We’ll figure something out,” she assured him.

“This is precisely what worried me,” Severus shot back disdainfully. 

# # #

Narcissa knocked again, though her knuckles were beginning to ache. “I am not leaving, Andromeda,” she said, raising her voice slightly. “If you want to leave your home ever again, you’ll have to step over me.” 

There was a long pause followed by the sound of movement on the other side of the door. Andromeda Tonks, nee Black, opened the door dressed in a set of plain,  mustard-coloured house robes. “You’ ll wake up my grandson, Narcissa,” she  admonished coolly.

“Then let’s talk somewhere more private,” replied Narcissa, intentionally raising her voice again towards the end of her sentence. 

Andromeda glared at her. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.” She was still bodily blocking the doorway. “You didn’t come when I got married. You didn’t come when my husband was murdered by the men of the monster you, your husband and your son chose to follow. You didn’t come when my daughter was born. You didn’t come when our sister killed her. You didn’t come when my grand-son was born, and you didn’t come when he was left an orphan by your side. What could you possibly want now?”

Narcissa drew  in  deep breath. “I didn’t come on my behalf.”

“Whatever you’re here for, the answer is no!”

“Please,” Narcissa insisted. “I’m begging you. You’re my sister….”

“A sister you didn’t remember having until it was convenient. You think I don’t remember how you rushed to deny me before our parents? I imagine you must’ve done the same before your precious Dark Lord. Well, he’s dead now. As is my entire family.” Andromeda’s wide eyes that were so close in shape and colour to those of Bellatrix filled with tears. “What do you want? For me to be the ladder you use to climb your way back to respectability. Well, I can’t help you!” She moved to shove the door into Narcissa’s face but the latter wedged a delicate, embroidered silk covered shoe in the way. 

“I came for the children of our House,” said Narcissa pleadingly. 

“Slytherin House is dead to me. Slytherins murdered almost everyone I loved. Where was the vaunted Slytherin fraternity when they killed my husband, my daughter and her husband?” 

“They’re just children, Andromeda. Like we used to be… do you remember?”

Ire mixed in with the grief marring Andromeda’s features. Age had left few marks on her regally beautiful visage, though. “I’m trying very had to forget.”

“They want to see their parents.”

“So they can break them out? No, their parents are where they deserve, though even this punishment hardly fits their many crimes.”

“Please,” repeated Narcissa, and took out the parchment she had come to give her sister. “The Chosen One is your grand-son’s godfather. Surely you can obtain the addresses. They just want to see their loved ones… if only from a distance.”

“You know what, Cissy? I want to see my family too but I can’t!” She looked over her shoulder as an infant began to cry somewhere in the house. 

Narcissa used the distraction to magick the parchment inside, tossing it on the floor behind her sister. Not all the names on the list belonged to the relatives of the children and teenagers Malfoy Manor was currently sheltering. She had put Severus Snape’s name in there too hoping he’d sneak by with the rest. 

When Andromeda’s gaze was back to her, it had become stony. “Remove that foot, Narcissa, or you will lose it!”

Narcissa stepped back. “I’m sorry about your family, Andromeda!”

“No, you’re not!”

Then the door was slammed shut. 

# # #

Severus was driven in a Ministry car to wherever Granger lived now, unable to see through the car’s bewitched windows, not that the exact location or the road there made any difference. At the Ministry he had been placed in the backseat, still shackled, between two Aurors. Granger had actually protested, arguing the collar made him a non-threat, but Kingsley had insisted it was only proper procedure. She hadn’t been allowed to come  in the same care with him, but he guessed she was in the  one trailing behind. 

They didn’t drive for long, though, for less than half an hour by his estimate. He was pushed outside into the blinding sun, his mounting head-ache still beating a relentless staccato against his temples. They had arrived at a peaceful looking cul-de-sac on a street of impeccably manicured brick houses and well-tended to bushes with a neo-Gothic church tower profiling against the  azure horizon. It looked like the posh antonym of the street where he had grown up with its squalid terraced homes and gritty mill tower hovering ominously in the distance. 

A lush front garden gave way to a three-story manor of a house. They stepped through a door painted in white and into a pastel-coloured, herringbone wood floored, detailed ceilinged nightmare. Granger, who had indeed stepped out of the second car, led them through the vestibule and into a bona fide reception room with immaculate white walls, a matching white fireplace, and walnut furniture, that opened into a dining space dressed in bright sunlight  streaming  from  the floor-to-ceiling windows of the marquise. Beyond it spread a small patio and a sprawling back garden that amounted to an incredible luxury in a city as starved for space as London. 

Severus looked down at the plush carpet spreading before his feet. Some unnamed instinct had kept him from treading on it. The kind of people who lived in such a house didn’t want a man who had grown up in the last house on Spinner’s End, Cokeworth, Middle of Backwater, step onto their fine, no doubt antique carpets. He knew the type all too well. The house of Lily’s parents had been far more modest but still a far cry from his own.  Mr. and Mrs. Evans had never said anything, obliged for politeness’ sake to hold their tongues in a way Petunia had been unable to, but they had had other ways to make it clear they didn’t like his being friends with their precious Lily. The mix of pity and condescension in their eyes when looking at him had spoken volumes.  Severus imagined they had to have been supremely relieved when Lily had ended their friendship. 

It was the reason why Severus preferred the manifest snobbery of the Pure-Blood. There was no pretence in it, no play at condescending charity that was more self-congratulatory than merciful. Rich, pure-blood Slytherin flaunted their wealth, their position and their disdain for everyone they saw as inferior. One always knew where they stood with them. A near lifetime of knowing Lucius Malfoy had never made Severus feel like an unworthy insect the way the look in the eyes of Lily’s parents used to every time they insisted that he should stay for dinner. Granger was looking at him the same way now. 

She cleared her throat when the Aurors left,  casting a dubious once-over at her surroundings, as though she were seeing her own home for the first time .  Severus was torn between the desire to kill her, which activated his collar, and the dark suspicion that she knew what he was, where he had grown up, and who and what his father had been. If not for a fact than on some deep, instinctual level. She had to sense it. That she had in her  swish , upper-middle-class home something worse than a Dark wizard, worse than a Death Eater, that she had just admitted in  a poor hooligan born to a drunken, violent, lazy man who used to sweep the floors of a slowly going out of business steel mill in a decaying industrial town. 

“My parents won’t be home… for a while longer,” spoke Granger at last, not meeting his eyes. “If you’ll follow me, Professor, I’ll show you to your room. I think you’ll be more comfortable on the top floor… you’ll have your own bathroom there.” 

Her tone was polished, polite, which only served to highlight her posh accent. 

“I am not your house guest, Miss Granger,” he snapped, imbuing his tone with as much ice as he could muster over his splitting head-ache. “Do you think that if you behave as if I were, I would fail to notice the collar around my neck? Or that I cannot use my magic any more? Do you expect perhaps that if you dress this up prettily enough you could lie to yourself about what it truly is? That I would fall down on my hands and knees and thank you for saving me because you gave me a bed and a bathroom instead of making me sleep on the floor in your cellar?”

She flinched, and looked stung. Clearly his barbs had reached their target. Colour rose to her cheeks, and her eyes grew too bright when she looked at him again. 

“I know you’re used to people having some nefarious secret agenda behind everything they do but I’m honestly only trying to help you. This is only temporary. I’m staring work at the Ministry tomorrow even. I’ll find some way to overturn the law. In the meantime, why can’t we make the best of a bad situation?”

He  jeered viciously, and stalked towards her, deliberately rubbing his well-worn dragon hide boots that he had had since he had first started teaching at Hogwarts into her parents’ fine rug. “Because, you stupid girl, this is only a bad situation for me. And you do have a nefarious secret agenda. You’re striving to convince yourself that you are a liberator, that you are still on the side of Goodness and Light, that your allies are incapable of anything heinous. Well, I love to break the news to the Gryffindor Princess but you cannot be both a liberator and a slave owner.” 

She looked up at him haughtily as he purposely towered over her. “You just can’t conceive that not everyone is as bad as you are.”

Severus allowed himself a smile of triumph, despite the shooting pain making him feel as if there was a hot iron poker jammed behind his right eye. “Anyone can be as bad as I am if not worse, you little hypocrite. All they need are the right circumstances. You have just been handed absolute power over a fellow human being. Oh, I am sure now your intentions are as pure as fresh snow, but I am also positive that before this is over, we shall both learn exactly how much they can be marred!”

TBC


	5. The First Day of School

If Severus had still had his wand and magic, he would have enchanted everything in the Granger house to blare  _Anarchy in the UK_ at full volume. He imagined the pearl-clutching on the part of Mrs. Granger would have been quite amusing. Still, there was no sign of Grangers as he and his former much detested Gryffindor student made their way up a wide, perfectly polished wooden staircase. 

The upper level of the house boasted four doors. Granger led him in through the first  one and into a bedroom that was larger than the entire second floor of the terraced home where Severus had grown up. It had the same detailed ceiling he had noticed downstairs and cream-coloured walls. It also had more light than the whole of Cokeworth in summer spilling generously from a tall window that afforded a view of the verdant, if slightly overgrown back garden. The room was dominated by an enormous bed covered in a flowery coverlet and an ocean of fluffy pillows. The furniture was solid cherrywood. Besides the bed, there was an armoire, a set of drawers with a framed mirror on top, and a bedside cabinet with a tall reading lam p complete with a Victorian-style beaded lampshade. There were also a few generic looking paintings on the wall s, and they seemed to have been chosen in order to fit the room’s colour scheme rather than for their artistic qualities. 

He turned to Granger who looked nervous, gnawing on her lower lip, and scowled. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered awkwardly, and snatched the flower print bed cover along with a few of the pillows from the bed, revealing a set of ivory bed clothes that appeared to be satin. 

Narcissa Malfoy would have hated this place. 

“The bathroom is two doors down,” blathered Granger, her arms full of pillows and that ridiculous coverlet Severus desperately wished to strangle her with. 

His head was splitting, the yanking of the collar in response to his violent thoughts about  Granger only worsening his distress. The bright sunlight streaming from the windows felt like sharp needles poking at his eyeballs. 

The bathroom was similarly big with sand-coloured tiles, a large, sparkling white claw foot tub, a shower cabin with frosted glass, and brass faucets. Even the  long , fluffy towels matched the overall colour scheme. 

“Spare towels and toiletries are in the cabinet under the stairs,” Granger said pleasantly from the door frame. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

“A wand, my magic and a way out of this colour-coordinated nightmare,” he replied smoothly, shooting her his best venomous glare.

She wilted under it, showing that he didn’t need magic to put his ex-students through their paces. Until she figured out just how much power she had over him, that was. 

“I’m sorry,” she said over the mountain of bedding still in her arms. “I know this isn’t ideal but….”

“A filthy Death Eater like me deserves it,” he barked and stood closer to her, deliberately looming over her smaller frame again. 

She looked up bravely. Bloody Gryffindor! Faint colour was rising in her cheeks. Either his actions or his words were getting to her. When she responded, there was a clear note of impatience in her tone. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she snapped. “But you have to admit…. You had a fair trial….”

“Fair?” He spat the word like he would have liked to do with his current, blinding head-ache. There was a tumult raging inside of him. Without the Occlumency walls that had been a part of his mental landscape for so long his emotions were running ragged in a way that made him feel just as powerless and as out of control as his loss of magic. “Nothing about my trail was fair!”

“You had the right to a defence… which was more than what the Muggle-borns got from the Ministry back when it was under Voldemort’s control. You were convicted by the Wizengamot. It’s either this or… prison, and you know as well as I do that’s not an option until the Auror Office has enough guards. Anyway, I can’t imagine this being worse than Azkaban!” 

“A cage is still a cage no matter how light and airy the walls. I don’t expect you to understand that never having been in one!”

She tossed her burden on the cheerful rug covering the landing. “I know! I’ve been in an actual cage. Just ask your good friend Lucius.”

“I’ll never see Lucius again,” he said bitterly. “I’ll never cast another spell. I’ll never brew another potion. I’ll never feel the weight of a wand in my palm. All I have to look forward to is the barren expanse of the years I shall spend as your… what was the official wording? Ward! And you’re my Ministry-appointed custodian while I am on house arrest. The side of Light would not want to sully its reputation with words like slave or… slave owner.” 

A muscle jumped in Granger’s jaw. He had gotten to her. Her eyes were burning, and his cheeks had gotten  livid . “You killed an unarmed old man begging for his life in cold blood. And don’t think that I don’t know what went on at Hogwarts during your regime as Headmaster… what you turned our school into. I knew even before the trial. Ginny, Neville and the rest told me. You had Death Eaters cast Unforgivable Curses on children! You’re right! This isn’t what you deserve! This is far better. If we were half as bad as you say, we’d be keeping the dementors around just for the likes of you… and let them have at you.”

“At least, the dementors don’t pretend to be humanitarians,” he sniped.

“And you’d know all about that! Hogwarts was crawling with them while you were headmaster, wasn’t it?” 

He drew himself taller with one of his patented sneers. “This must be quite a rush for you, I imagine! To have the one Hogwarts teacher who didn’t eat out of the palm of your hand at your mercy. Is this why you requested me personally? To extract a bit of vengeance  because I didn’t praise the brightest witch of her age as she so longed to be lauded? You could not abide that there was one person in the world not pampering the vaunted Gryffindor princess, Hermione Granger of Hampstead!” 

Her eyes narrowed. “No,  _Professor_ . I only meant to protect you because I knew you’d be safe here with me. You may not believe it and I don’t care but I’m not keener on this law than you are. And I’m just as committed as I said to do anything in my power to overturn it. But in the meantime we are stuck with each other so could we at least make an effort to be civil.”

“Is that a command?” he asked silkily. 

“A polite suggestion.” 

“How magnanimous of you,” he bit out sardonically. “And don’t call me Professor! The one good thing that has come out of this is that I don’t have to teach you, dunderheads, any more.” 

She expelled a long, shuddery breath, clearly struggling with her temper threatening to get the better of her. “What should I call you then?”

“You’re the mistress, Granger, you decide.” 

Another blow that hit its  intended  target. A terrible look crossed her face. 

“For the last time!” she shouted then paused and took another deep breath. “I’m not your… keeper.”

He sneered once more, relishing the effect he was having on her. “Is that not what custodian means?” 

She wore the same expression she used when he admonished her in class. “Fine,” she rasped. “I’ll just call you Severus then, won’t I? I suppose  _Sir_ will no longer be appropriate for our change in circumstances.” 

Her tone was ironic but he treated her words as the most serious of proclamations. He presented her with a mock bow not that he was any proficient with the real thing. The Pure-Bloods in his House had attempted to teach him while he had been a student with mixed results. “As my liege wishes.” 

He got the distinct impression that Granger was about to pelt him with those ludicrous pillows she had collected from what was to be his bed. She took another deep breath that almost came out as  a his s . “I’ll go and order us lunch,” she said in a tone of calm so obviously forced that he could hear the gnashing of her teeth. “Is Indian food okay?”

“I would not presume….”

“Stop!” Granger cried. “Just stop! Before we make the front page of the Prophet tomorrow with our murder-suicide story. And I know my mother will never forgive me if I get blood all over her rugs and walls.” 

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Granger, anyway?”

She flinched. Another chord he had struck and could harp on later. 

“It doesn’t concern you,” she said briskly, and picked her load of pillows and coverlet from the floor again. “Indian food, it is then.”

“I’m not hungry,” he retorted. 

It was a lie. He had barely eaten a thing at breakfast at the hospital knowing what was coming. Thankfully, his head-ache induced nausea squashed his hunger, though he was fully aware that sooner or later he would have to eat Granger’s food… probably in her company as well. 

“Suit yourself. Your things will be sent over from Hogwarts tomorrow evening. There’s a lady who comes to clean the house but I gave her this week off so we’ll have time to work on what to tell her.”

He shrugged. “Tell her anything you want. Your domestic arrangements  are nothing to me. Or are you under the delusion that I would attempt to recruit a Muggle to help me escape? The wards make it impossible for me to leave the house. Then again how far would I make  it given the tracking charm in my collar?” 

She coloured again, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other. “I guess I’ll just tell her you’re a family friend who’s staying over for a while. She’s really nice…. Her name’s Olivia. She’ll start to come again on Monday.”

“I shall try and stay out of her way then,” he quibbled. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she said over her shoulder as she started back towards the stairs. 

When her steps grew more and more distant, he slammed the door shut and leaned his forehead against it. The confrontation had drained the last  vestige  of his resources. The pain rolling against the insides of his skull was getting to be unbearable. Severus had suffered through numerous bouts of Cruciatus in his lifetime but this was its own particular brand of torture. It wasn’t just the pain. He was practically trembling with impotent fury, the absence of his magic forming an unfamiliar emptiness in the centre of his chest. He thought it was about to swallow him whole. 

He splashed cold water onto his face, getting some in his hair. Then he began to paw at the broad, off white medicine cabinet the doors of which doubled as a sink mirror. He found Diclofenac, Ibuprofen, and Aspirin as well as two different types of bandages. He took two pills of Diclofenac and held his face under the tap for a few moments. The bathroom had an unnaturally wide window that let in far too much sunlight. 

After he used the toilet, he hesitated only briefly before turning the key the door, fortunately, had, in the lock, and taking off his clothes. He got into the shower and turned on the cold water, letting  it  cascade over him as he sat down crossed-legged on the tiles. 

A stray thought floated dimly into his agitated consciousness that made for a swirling maelstrom of  disparate  musings and out-of-control emotions. He tried to breathe evenly, counting in his head to centre himself, attempting to force his mind to go blank but the pain was too much of a hindrance. The stray thought would not go away. 

Today was the first of September, the first day of the new school year at Hogwarts. It was fitting in a tartly ironic kind of way. He tossed his head back and laughed not caring that water lodged in his mouth, eyes, and nostrils. The sound of his chortles travelled to him over the rainfall of the shower. It was  sharp and held just a touch of hysteria . Sputtering he lowered his head back again and spat out the water that had got into his mouth.  Tears began to run down his cheeks, hot as fresh lava. 

# # #

The late afternoon sun bathed the green of the hedge into a halo of light that spilled onto the silhouette seated on one of the bench by a niche in the bushes harbouring the  white marble  statue of a Malfoy ancestor. Draco drew closer drinking in the sight. Astoria Greengrass looked otherworldly in that instant, and he wished he were a poet so he could have some grand, lyrical compliment at the ready. She was unlike most of those in his House, he had noted during Professor Snape’s trial. He wished he had noticed as much earlier, back at Hogwarts. He wished he had been a lot less involved with himself and his father’s designs for him so he could have seen someone like Astoria. Perhaps then things would have been different. Perhaps then he would have been different.

“Hello,” she said in that voice that sounded like a thousand tiny silver bells chiming. 

She was smiling at him so he dared come closer and finally, sit down next to her. Just then a peacock’s cry cut through the  stifling early September air. Astoria flinched and gave a loud gasp. “I don’t like peacocks,” she murmured.

“Why not?” Draco wanted to know. 

“Their cries are strange… as if they’re ripped from their very soul. It’s eerie… like a bad omen.” She gave a small giggle here. “I sound like Sybill Trelawney, don’t I? It’s funny. I used to think she was batty but I now I miss even her.” She stared ahead at the empty, green grounds stretching beyond the gate to Malfoy Manor and towards the edge of a grove. “It’s the first day of school today, you know.”

“I know,” said Draco quietly. He might have acquitted but he had been denied the chance to sit his N.E.W.T.s and graduate. 

“I would’ve started my sixth year today,” she said dully. “I would’ve been supposed to pick N.E.W.T. classes…. Daphne says I’m just torturing myself thinking about which ones I would’ve liked to do.”

He shifted closer. “When I started my sixth year I thought I was relieved that soon I wouldn’t have to concern myself with passing Charms or doing homework. Instead, I was supposed to mend a cabinet and kill the Headmaster. I was an idiot.”

She turned to face him with a sour smile. “You weren’t a bigger idiot than our parents.”

He sniggered as he stared at the beautifully elongated contour of her face. “Sometimes I think it’s all a dream… a nightmare, more like it. And that I’ll wake up in the seventh year, worrying about passing Charms and doing homework.” He looked away, the grimness in her gaze hard to bear. “It’s easy to blame it all on  _him_ . But I just…. So what if they let the blasted Muggle-borns go to Hogwarts and gave them wands? Why couldn’t we leave well enough alone? All this blood, all this death…. He wasn’t even a Pure-Blood himself, you know. The Dark Lord, I mean.”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. I guess nothing matters any more.”

“Would it have mattered if we won, do you think?”

He leaned towards her. “Can you keep a secret?” He waited for her to nod before adding: “I’m glad we lost… despite… you know, all things considered.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Glad? I wouldn’t say I am glad but… if I had to choose…. I’m relieved he didn’t win. It might not be better this way, not for us, but then victory is never kind on the losers. I’m not afraid any more, though.  That’s something, isn’t it? I used to be afraid all the time back then. I believe my parents were afraid too.”

“I know _we_ were!” 

Their gazes locked and  they exchanged  small,  sad smiles.

# # #

Hermione was feeling a little self-conscious being shown around by the acting Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When she pointed that out to the wizard accompanying her, the answer he supplied was hardly reassuring.

“It’s not every day that a member of the Golden Trio comes to work with us.”

She gravitated towards one of the cubicles, assuming that as an absolute beginner, she would have a place there but was instead steered towards an office that was actually larger than the one Arthur Weasley and his colleague  shared at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. There was a large bouquet of white roses on her desk. 

“You have many admirers in our Department,” her companion said with a smile. “Well, I’ll let you make yourself comfortable. Should you need anything, remember my doors is always open. Any time of the day just feel free to come in.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” replied Hermione politely. “I’m sure your time is very valuable especially under the present circumstances.”

“Nonsense, nonsense! You are welcome anytime.” 

With that, he was gone. As Hermione closed the door to her office, Snape’s words about her favoured position at Hogwarts rang venomously in her memory. She shook her head to dispel them and the thought of her former Potions Master. Knowing him under house arrest in her home brought discomfort cramping within her. 

Her office had a small window mimicking a golden, sunny early September day, tough the London weather outside was, in fact, dreary and grey. She sat down behind her desk a bit at a loss as to what to do. She knew what she wanted to do—to work to overturn the law  for the servitude of the Death Eaters and to improve the life of house elves everywhere—but she hadn’t been given any instruction s . Nor had she been asked to perform any tasks. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” she said enthusiastically hoping it was someone who had come to bring her something to do.

It was Arthur Weasley. He came in a smile. “Hello, Hermione. Welcome to the family!”

She smiled back, relieved  at the genuine warmth and lack of fawning in his voice. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley. I’m glad to be here. I’m actually anxious to get to work.”

He frowned slightly as he came in, shutting the door after himself. “This won’t take long then.” He glanced from her to his shoes briefly. “I was wondering…. This is a bit of a delicate matter, Hermione.” 

Hermione stood, concerned at the sight of his uncharacteristic reluctance. “What is this regarding, Mr. Weasley?”

“Perhaps….” He glanced at the door. “I ought to let them explain.”

Before Hermione could wedge in another word he disappeared back out the door and returned a minute or so later with a couple in their later 50s. Hermione had never seen them before but she knew instantly who they were. The resemblance between the woman and Charity Burbage was uncanny. 

Mr. Weasley introduced them. Mr. Burbage had a resigned air about him, grief etched like water cracks in a stone onto his face. Mrs. Burbage’s suffering was more obvious, and her hand trembled slightly when she extended it to Hermione. 

Hermione conjured chairs for them all, and once they were seated, Mrs. Burbage spoke first. She even sounded like her daughter. “ You probably know that our Charity vanished after she published a Muggle-friendly article in the Daily Prophet. We tried everything…. We even appealed to the Malfoy family since Voldemort lived in their home during most of the war but they refused to talk to us.”

Hermione nodded. She, of course, knew why the Malfoys hadn’t wanted to give any evidence after their acquittal. So they wouldn’t end up having to testify against Severus Snape and other Death Eaters. 

Mrs. Burbage’s shoulders slumped, and she dissolved into quiet sobs. Her husband shot her a desolate look then glanced at Hermione. “I know Charity’s gone, Miss Granger, but my wife… she wants to know what happened. We wish to bury her… for her to have a grave….” He paused, his voice catching on the last word. “Charity was  a wonderful, vibrant person. She doesn’t deserve not to have left a trace, to have disappeared as though she  had  never existed.”

“Miss Burbage did leave a trace,” said Hermione. “In all of her students. She was an excellent teacher. We all remember her fondly.”

Mrs. Burbage looked up at her with wide, teary eyes, sniffling quietly in her handkerchief. Arthur Weasley gave her a pained look. Hermione had to wonder whether he was thinking of Fred. 

“We heard through the Office for Victims and Veterans Outreach that Prof… Severus Snape has become your ward,” continued Mr. Burbage. “Charity spoke kindly of him. We know he has done terrible things but perhaps… if we could just talk to him… maybe he’d find it in his heart to tell us if he knows anything. He and Charity were colleagues, after all.”

Mrs. Burbage whimpered. “It’s awful not knowing, Miss Granger.”

Hermione sank in her seat, her heart going out to her. But for a meagre change in circumstance these could have been her parents, desperately searching for any sign of their missing daughter, clinging to any hope, no matter how tiny or unlikely. She doubted Snape was in the mood to volunteer any piece of information but she couldn’t bring herself to refuse them. “We could try,” she said softly, trying and failing to sound encouraging.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. “ Ron always said you used to defend him. And he did do a few good things for the Order before… before he killed Dumbledore. Of course, he could’ve been just playing a part but… perhaps it’s not so far fetched to think there’s still some good left in him.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes  trained on the broken remnants of the parents of her Muggle Studies teacher. Mrs. Burbage was no longer weeping but staring at Hermione with a kind of hope in her eyes that was actually worse than any amount of sobbing. 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter of The Shadow... is coming but I've overhyped myself for this new one so much that no matter what I do with it, it just doesn't read right to me. Writers, eh? :)


	6. Charity

The tell-tale cold of the dementors’ presence stole into Severus’ blood. He pulled his cloak tighter around his body but it didn’t help. He was so cold that his teeth were all but chattering. The scent of smoke filled his lungs to the point that he could taste it on the back of his tongue. His feet sank into the ashes as he stared upwards at the blackened ruin that was once Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He heard laughter, and the sound was filled with gleeful malice. His gaze was prompted to return to the ground which was strewn with bodies, all broken and twisted. He recognized a few of the mangled, bloodied faces: the entire Weasley family, Minerva Mcgonagall, Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Horace Slughorn, Septima Vector, even Sybill Trelawney... and students.... So many of them. So young. Cut down before they had a chance to really live. Hermione Granger... Neville Longbottom... Luna Lovegood... Cho Chang... the Patil twins.... Hagrid with his chest cracked opened so that his torn ribs were visible. They were dead, all of them. Even the Boy-Who-Lived.

Severus tumbled to his knees by the inert body of Lily’s son and stared into the empty green eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I failed... I failed you all.... I was the one who should have died. You were supposed to win... and live! Oh, Lily, forgive me....”

His eyes flew open into an uncertain darkness. He blinked. The horror of the nightmare was lingering. His head was splitting, atrocious pain emanating from the top of his skull. It took a moment from the smell of blood and smoke and ashes to fade from his sense memory. Gradually he remembered where he was: in a bedroom in the home of one Hermione Granger. And the sheets smelled soapy, clean. No blood, ashes or smoke. No dementors. No Dark Lord, either, for he was dead and defeated. Finally!

He sat up gingerly. He was feeling faint, which was no surprise since he had barely eaten a thing the previous day as he had been intent on avoiding Granger at both lunch and dinner. He touched the cold metal of the collar encircling his neck and binding his magic. Perhaps it was the pain. Or the dizziness. But for one insane moment he was relieved that the outcome of the war had not been that of his nightmare, relieved that instead he was deprived of magic and enslaved. He fell back onto the bedding. Maybe it wasn’t so insane. No, this was certainly the preferable outcome. He feared closing his eyes, feared he might see the dead bodies again.

It wasn’t truly dark in the room. The drawn curtains were ecru and there were security lights wafting pale neon rays onto the back garden. It was hard to pretend he was back in his quarters in the Dungeon but still he tried. The alternative was to take more of the pain-killers in the bathroom and he needed to rationalise those. Granger had left a helping of potions from St. Mungo’s on his doorstep sometime during the evening so that he could continue the treatment of his neck wound but the one for pain relief was standard, mass produced and therefore, weak. His head could be literally splitting and it would barely help.

He tried to picture the cool dampness of the air in the Dungeons and the resulting watery smell. He tried to feel it float over his skin that felt dry and grimy. In the absence of his Occlumency walls, he tried to use the sensation as means to centre himself. But the pain only seemed to get worse. He thought his throat might be hurting too but it was hard to tell. The horrible roil of the head-ache obliterated anything else.

The light of dawn had already begun to spill through the curtain when he finally managed to fall back asleep or perhaps he lost consciousness. He couldn’t tell for sure. He didn’t care, either way.

# # #

When he woke up again, the sun was blazing, its light assaulting his eyes. Those blasted curtains really were useless! Thankfully his head-ache had receded to a dull, full-bodied throb. More sickening, however, was his first thought as he opened his eyes: that the loss of his magic and wand was an acceptable price to pay for the fact that his nightmare had not become reality.

He listened intently but the house was quiet. Granger had to be at the Ministry by now, he decided. He took his potions and went into the bathroom. The luxurious, frosted glass shower and the tub were beckoning. He had had a more than adequate bathroom at Hogwarts but the fact that he had the opportunity to use one such as this in the Muggle world made it all the more appealing.

Growing up in the last house on Spinner’s End, bathing had been a luxury. His parents’ home had never had a bathroom; instead, they had had to carry water into the house from the pump at the back. It wasn’t even their pump. They had had to share with the neighbours. Lugging water inside was not only a chore, wasting coal to heat it angered his father and he had got more than one beating for doing just that. Grimy children with torn and mud-caked fingernails were not an unusual sight in his corner of Cokeworth. Children played all day on the dusty cobble streets, on the filthy river banks and in the fields sprawling just beyond their homes, and much like him, had nothing but portable tin baths and the kitchen sink to wash themselves in. The first clean children he had seen had been Lily and Petunia with their porcelain skin, whole, pristine fingernails and a distinct lack of the boiled cabbage, smoke and stale dirt scent that hang around Severus like a cloud.

He scrubbed himself clean the best he could, wrinkling his nose at the citrus, cedarwood and lavender smell of something called shower mouse that he had found on the Grangers’ shower rack. Then he trailed back into the bedroom intent on discovering what was in the package Granger had left by his door in the night. Apparently, his personal effects from Hogwarts had been sent, which meant none of his books or potion supplies or anything even remotely magic related. They had basically sent the entire contents of his wardrobe. Which meant that he now had a cloak and several sets of robes he had nothing to do with since he was no longer a wizard or free. Thankfully they had also thought to send his black trousers and white tunic shirts he used to wear under his robes as well as his undergarments. Trying very hard not to think about who had packed that, unable to decide which answer was worse, he resolved to wash them carefully, preferably by hand, so that he could extend their life to the entire duration of his stay with Granger. He felt like he would die of shame if he had to ask her to provide him with underwear.

When he put on his shirt, he noticed once more that the Dark Mark on his forearm was now reduced to an ashen shadow. His relief upon waking up came back. He couldn’t figure if that made everything better or worse.

# # #

The kitchen was on the first floor and as bright and tastefully cheerful as any other room he had seen so far. The restaurant-sized fridge was filled to the brim. He smeared some butter on bread and grabbed a wedge of cheese then inhaled both before he could taste them. He hadn’t even realised he was so hungry. A moment later it occurred to him that he was eating Hermione Granger’s food because he was her _ward_. The collar suddenly felt cold and heavy on his still smarting neck. The food came back up and he vomited in the kitchen sink.

He sank to his knees on the floor. The beige floorboards looked cool and inviting and he rested his left temple on them, eyes squeezed shut as if he could keep his thoughts at bay in this manner. But the only thing that could actually manage that was denied to him. He lay like that until the worse of the nausea passed then dragged himself up to his feet. He curled over the counter, his fingers clenched on the edge, dry heaving for a few minutes. Then he set up to cleaning the sick because he was loath to have to explain this to Granger.

He tried very hard not to think he could have accomplished that in a split second with magic, afraid the notion might make him physically ill again. His head had also started to pound once more. Still the rote dullness of the manual labour proved to be soothing in a strange way. He focused on his every gesture, recalling how he used to help out with household chores at Spinner’s End as a child and later as a teenager during his summer holidays. It was easy falling back along the old and tried pathways. And he found himself emptying his mind like it was required for Occlumency. When the kitchen was spotless again and he had aired it, his head-ache as well as the burn in his neck, though still punishing, had receded to the back of his thoughts. Pathetic as it might be, cleaning up still gave him a feeling of accomplishment.

The rest of the house was rather the same—overly large for a family of three, pastel and understatedly elegant. It solidified the Grangers as quite possibly the dullest people he had ever met. No door was locked and as he looked around, he could find no evidence of any secret... or personality. Not even a clandestine smoking habit.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were both dentists, both upper middle class, and they had both gone to Oxford where they had met. Severus had had no trouble or need of his spy experience to unearth that they paid all their taxes and bills on time, and that their daughter had inherited a small trust fund from her grand-parents. But the biggest disappointment had come from the library which he had found on the second floor in a spacious room with graceful, walnut furniture, a large, ornate fireplace with the obligatory rug upfront surrounded by three comfortable-looking armchairs. The collection, however, relied so heavily on bibliophile worthy editions of Shakespeare that it was disturbing. Aside from that he found only medical books and a few other classics of English literature. He suspected that learning of the writings of someone like Hunter Thompson might prove fatal to the Grangers. After all, too much pearl clutching could not be healthy.

The library also housed the family’s record and CDs collection which was just as bad for it was comprised mainly of generic soft jazz and a handful of piano selections that seemed to have been chosen because they made for good dinner music rather than out of affinity for a certain composer. Severus had a visceral image of a tweed-clad tutor teaching Granger how to play the instrument in the family room downstairs under the benevolently watchful gaze of her insipid, well-meaning parents. 

Calculating how long it would take tedium to cause his brain to rot, he wandered into the master bathroom. He studied the contents of the medicine cabinet relieved to find more pain-killers there and pocketed a few pills he was sure Granger wouldn’t notice missing. Afterwards he could never tell what had made him linger but he would always remember the exact moment he stumbled across it: a half-used pack of double-edge razor blades. He supposed that without magic he would have to use those; he had quite a stubble already. He would also have to suffer the indignity of asking Granger to provide more for him when these ran out.

It occurred to him as he shaved, employing the fine razor and subtly scented cream of Granger’s father, that he would to suffer the indignity of asking his former student to supply him with a great deal many things from now on. He cast the used blade into the bin only then realising that he hadn’t seen any big knives in the kitchen, just smaller, dull ones that could inflict no real damage. It seemed that Granger didn’t trust him to be enough of a declawed and defanged tiger.

When he left the bathroom, there was a fresh, unused razor in his pocket. Later he hid it under the mattress in his would-be bedroom. Granger couldn’t have counted those, could she?

He swallowed two pills of Ibuprofen dry. His head-ache was getting even worse.

# # #

It was already dark outside when he heard the knock on his door. Granger stood on the other side, grim and pale, dressed in a professional looking set of blue robes. She had come straight from the Ministry, Severus realised.

“Good evening, Severus,” she began, an uncharacteristic trace of nerves in her voice. “I was wondering if you could join me downstairs.”

He curled his upper lip. “Why would I do that?” he snarled.

“Because I’m asking.... Please, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

This didn’t bode well!

“Why are you asking when you could command?” he snapped.

Her gaze flew to his, alive with budding anger. “Have it your way then! I’m ordering you to come downstairs... right now!”

He breezed past her and swept downstairs regretting that he was still only in his shirt and trousers because the added heft of his dark robes would have made more of an impression. Once downstairs Granger nodded towards the reception room. Severus went in realising the trap a moment too late.

He knew who the man and the woman were instantly. He would have known them anywhere even if Charity Burbage hadn’t waved a few family photos at her colleagues every time he came back from a holiday. Charity had looked a lot like her mother, it appeared.

Granger introduced them just the same while Severus could only stare, his insides reduced to ice, and a rolling buzz much like white noise taking over his ears. He knew why they were here too. He had known it before Mrs. Burbage opened her mouth to plead, her eyes—identical to Charity’s—filling with tears. It was the same imploring look Charity had given him right before Voldemort had killed her. Right before Severus had done nothing to save her.

He felt like a fool standing there gaping at Charity’s parents, listening to Mrs. Burbage ineffectual pleas, and watching the disapproving curve of Mr. Burbage’s mouth. Granger was looking hopeful. What was that idiot girl thinking, bringing them here to him? What did Mr. and Mrs. Burbage want to hear? That Charity was still alive, despite everything and against all odds. They had to know she was dead. All logic pointed to that. Did they perhaps long to know that she hadn’t suffered at the end? Severus knew for a fact that she had. A lot, in fact. The Dark Lord was an exquisite and detailed torturer as Severus could attest to from personal experience. That she hadn’t been afraid. That she had died bravely, on her feet, defying her murderer. She hadn’t. She had been terrified. She had been pleading just like her mother was doing now.

Did her parents want to hear the truth? That Severus knew what the bloody insides of their daughter looked like. That he could still hear the wet tearing sounds of Nagini devouring her in his dreams. That he heard them more often and clearer than he saw his own attack by the snake. That he knew what her pained screams sounded like just as he knew the smell of her blood and the salty tang of her tears hanging in the air. Did they really wish to know that? Or would they rather prefer to go on clinging to the delusion that Charity might still be alive somewhere or that at least, she had died quickly and painlessly, meeting with no pain and no fear at the end? That she had been brave and defiant? That she had not begged a man she had apparently thought of as friend in vain?

“I cannot help you,” he said dully. “I don’t know what happened to your daughter.”

He saw something spark in Granger’s eyes right before he whirled on a heel. She suspected the lie, no doubt. He didn’t care. He marched back upstairs, both his heart and his head pounding.

# # #

It didn’t take long for Granger to come find him. He was standing by the window, staring unseeingly into the lit back garden, his short, unevenly cut fingernails digging into his palms. He would have asked Charity’s memory for forgiveness, if he thought he deserved it.

Granger was paler than before and there was a terrible look in her eyes. The Burbage’s plight had clearly affected her greatly.

“I once told Harry and Ron and killing Dumbledore doesn’t make you evil,” she said slowly as thought choosing her words carefully.

“Am I to understand you have come to revaluate that assessment since then?” he asked coldly.

“All Mr. and Mrs. Burbage want is closure. Their only daughter vanished without a trace. They have a right to know what happened to her! I’ve told them it’s late, that they should rest but that they could come back and ask you again in a few days’ time. So I have to wonder. Why wouldn’t you tell them? You obviously know what happened to Miss Burbage.”

“I have nothing to tell them,” he replied. “And they have no business asking. They have obviously already made up their mind to hope she is still alive. Far be it from me to dispel the illusion.”

She stepped past the threshold and deeper into the room. “That’s because they don’t know anything,” she all but shouted. “Look, if you’re worried about a new trial based on anything you might tell the Burbages, I’m sure they’ll keep your secret. I’ll leave you three talk alone the next time they come.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why are you so interested in this matter, Miss Granger? Could it because you see yourself in Charity? Are you thinking perhaps that it could have just as easily been your own parents in the shoes of Mr. and Mrs. Burbage?”

“What if I am? It doesn’t mean _her_ parents don’t deserve to know what happened to their daughter, does it now?”

“We cannot all get what we deserve, Miss Granger. It’s the Burbages’ turn to learn as much.”

Her eyes widened. “Isn’t there anything even closely resembling a heart underneath all those sneers and snide remarks? She was your colleague, for Merlin’s sake! I know you disagree with what she taught and believed but still... she was nice, kind.... She, of all witches and wizards, would’ve been kind to you too. Don’t you care even a bit? You’ve seen her parents. Don’t you think she’s been punished enough for one measly article? Don’t her parents deserve one small thing that would cost you nothing... nothing at all?!”

He merely glared back at her, pressing his lips tightly together. Cold sweat bloomed on the back of his neck.

_Severus... please...._

_We’re friends....._

He could still smell the stench of Charity’s sweat and tears and blood. In his mind’s eye, her face wavered and blurred and superimposed over that of Dumbledore.

_Severus... please...._

Without the shield of his Occlumency he was floundering.

“I killed her,” he found himself saying softly. “On the Dark Lord’s orders... as punishment for that article she wrote in the Daily Prophet. You remember it well, don’t you?” As he continued, he infused his voice with as much derision as he could summon, which was not a lot given that his very flesh clenched and shivered with the horror of the memory. “She said that Muggles are not so different from us... that we should mate with them... and create more abominations such as yourself.” He couldn’t bring himself to utter _that_ word. He couldn’t even think it, though he was fully aware it would only serve to provoke Granger further.

Granger’s breathing was impossibly loud in the still room. She was close to panting. But Severus no longer saw her face, instead he glimpsed that final tear trickling out of Charity’s wide opened eyes frozen in pain and terror just as death had claimed her.

When his vision returned to the present again, Granger was holding out her wand, stretched towards him like a knife.

“We fed her to Nagini, the Dark Lord and I,” he added, unable to stop talking now that he had started. “What was left of her, anyway, which was not much after I had disembowelled her.”

Granger’s lips parted. They were very white.

“Crucio!”

Her command of the curse was frail and uneven. It was nothing like what Severus had suffered at the hands of Voldemort whose use of Cruciatus was superlative, impeccably focused, and unerringly strong. Still the pain crested through him easily adding to the one hammering at the insides of his skull and the sharp twinge in his neck. It was over almost as soon as it began. Granger’s fingers were trembling on her wand that gleamed too bright and looked too delicate to be able to hold and spew forward such darkness.

“You are weak,” he said, forcing his lips into a smile. “Just like Charity Burbage. Weak... like all those born of the filthy mix of Muggle and magic blood.”

“You’re Half-Blood,” she roared and cursed him with barely a moment’s hesitation.

That was more like it! The curse shot through his with a blinding white stab of pain that singed each and every one of his nerves as she channelled her obvious rage into her wand. He wavered on his feet and let himself clatter to his knees, his eyes still fixed on Granger.

Severus was no stranger to torture but it was different this time. The red beam of the Cruciatus spreading from her wand to him seemed to create an almost intimate link between the two of them. The Dark Lord’s torments were uniquely excruciating but they were cold, devoid of all feeling. Now, however, guilt, fury, and despair mingled in the air between him and Hermione Granger, binding with the pain, refining and transmuting it into something else, something as darkly wondrous as it was disturbing.

It was only heightened by her identifying with Charity, though, as he looked at her, Severus could no longer see his dead colleague but he saw Granger herself, as if for the first time, in a new light. One tinged with crimson as the rays spilling from her wand reflected on her face. There were tears blooming in her eyes. Granger lowered her wand. Her knuckles are chalky white as she grabbed onto it, though her fingers had never once stopped quivering.

The horror on her pinched face was hard to read. Was it was at him? At herself for what she had done? At Charity’s fate? At everything and everyone.

“You see, we are not so different, you and I... your side and mine,” he said, his voice coming out only slightly raspy.

She fled.

TBC


	7. The Women of Slytherin House

Hermione staggered into her room, her mind a whirl. She shut the door in her wake and slumped against, slowly sliding to her knees on the floor. Her wand made a clattering sound as she tossed it aside. Her palms came to cover her face. What had she done?

How could she have done it?

# # #

Severus lay in bed with curtains pulled over the windows. Even with his eyes squeezed closed; he could perceive some of the sickly, cool light spilling from the security bulbs in the back garden. There could be no pretending he was still in the Hogwarts Dungeons. There could be no sleep tonight, either. Beneath his body, beneath the fine, soft sheet, beneath the quality feather mattress, laid hidden the razor blade. His own private secret. It offered unexpected comfort.

A faint burning sensation animated his body, while his extremities felt numb and cold. Her head and throat still hurt. The Cruciatus after-effects were negligible, though. Hermione Granger was no Dark Lord. For all her wand work proficiency and spell knowledge, her command of the Unforgivable curse was extremely weak. Even her anger at the fate of her teacher and her empathy towards Charity’s parents could not override the drive of her conscience.

He understood. Cursing a man without wand and magic was far harder than doing to an armed opponent. He thought of Charity’s parents.

_Severus... please... We’re friends..._

The house was tall. If he opened the window and jumped, would the wards aiming to keep him in toss him back to safety? What if he made a noose out of the sheets? What then? Would the collar that prevented him from harming Hermione also keep him from injuring himself?

# # #

“I used two Unforgivables during the war,” said Harry looking at Hermione across the long table in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place. “I Crucioed someone for so much as spitting on Mcgonagall.”

Hermione flinched. Ron’s hand atop hers moved in an awkwardly soothing motion. “It’s Snape, ‘Mione,” said Ron. “The greasy git would drive anyone barmy. The things he says have a way of sticking with you.”

“That was the war,” replied Hermione quietly, her tearful eyes fixed on Harry. “We’ve all done… things during the war. This was an unarmed man with no magic… and I cursed him… I just cursed him twice.”

Ron squeezed the tips of her fingers. Hermione felt the scorching trail of a tear running down her left cheek.

“Ron’s right, Hermione,” Harry interjected. “Remember everything he said to us in school? I’d come in his class determined not to give him a reason this time and he’d just pounce. Snape could make a unicorn go mental. That’s just how he is. You know that! Besides, you wouldn’t believe the things he told Kingsley and me. He had the nerve to claim he’s innocent. He said that he was on our side the whole time. I guess he thought that if he fooled Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of our time, he could hoodwink just about anyone, let alone someone as dim-witted as he thinks me to be. Well, his time’s run out. He’s not fooling anyone anymore.”

“I guess he decided to drop the innocent act now,” Ron added.

Hermione shook her head, still feeling at a loss. “Every time I close my eyes I see Professor Burbage. She was so kind... and a good teacher.”

Harry snorted his expression grim. “I guess we know why Snape killed her. Burbage was beloved while he was hated.”

“Do you ever...” Hermione started. “Do you ever think that it could’ve been us? That it could’ve been us who had died, I mean? That it could be our friends and families desperately looking for a body to bury... pleading with Death Eaters for any scrap of news? I can’t even bring my parents home... not until we’re sure we’ve got every last of Voldemort’s supporters... but at least they’re alive. At least, I’m alive. Sooner or later they’ll get to see me, hug me... All Mr. and Mrs. Burbage would ever have is an empty grave. How do I tell them? That their daughter was tortured and killed by a colleague... a man she trusted... that they can’t even have a burial for her because he fed her to a giant snake. How do I do it?”

Ron’s hand trembled above Hermione’s but didn’t budge. “We’ll tell them together,” he said firmly.

“Yeah, Hermione,” Harry piped in also. “We’ll come with you. You won’t have to do it alone. And Snape will pay. I’ll inform the Auror Department first thing in the morning. There’ll be a second trial for the murder of Miss Burbage. He won’t get away with it.”

“Harry,” Ron began uncertainly and while shifting in his seat. “What if he tells? Hermione’s right about one thing: using the Unforgivable Curses in the war is not the same as during peacetime. If he tells the Wizengamot about the Cruciatus, Hermione’ll go to Azkaban.”

“It’ll be his word against hers. Who’ll believe a Death Eater over one of the Golden Trio?”

“They don’t have to believe anything,” Hermione said staring unseeingly ahead. “The Cruciatus causes nerve damage, mild and temporary if the curse is weak, severe and unless treated, permanent if the curse is prolonged and strong. Any healer could prove he’s been cursed recently and since he lives alone with me....” She gulped in a long, shuddery breath. “But I’d rather go to Azkaban than deny Professor Burbage justice.”

Harry held up a hand. “Wait a moment. Does he even need to appear before the Wizengamot? He admitted to it, right? You could testify, Hermione. Besides, he’s already received the maximum penalty. Unfortunately, they won’t have him beheaded.”

“Why not?” muttered Ron darkly.

“The Department for International Magical Cooperation thinks it’ll make us look like barbarians abroad,” answered Hermione listlessly. “Haven’t you noticed how none of the Death Eaters received the death penalty? Everyone at the Ministry believes we need all the sympathy we can get if we want to keep benefitting from the international aid we desperately need after the war.”

“You know you can kick Snape out of your house any time you want,” said Harry.

Hermione shook her head no. “Don’t you see? People come to me with problems like that of the Burbages’. They might not know to go to someone who’s less renowned. I can help them. I may not always be able to get the truth out of Snape, but if I can give at least a few of them closure, it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

Ron and Harry looked less convinced as worry featured heavily in their gazes.

# # #

Severus lay on his back on the bed, his eye still squeezed shut. The morning light pressed heavily onto his sealed lids. Those ecru curtains really were useless, more decorative than anything else. He had got up to use the toilet because he couldn’t take the indignity of soiling himself. Not yet, anyway. He could get up again, of course, shower and go downstairs to eat. Then he would face the bareness of a day with nothing to do. A day like many, many others. Empty, pointless, devoid of magic, and purpose. Here as well as in Azkaban after that. And wizards lived for a long, long time. The only thing he had to look forward to was the onset of madness that would blissfully deprive him of the knowledge of what was happening to him.

It was over. The war was won. The Dark Lord was gone. Lily’s son was alive. Both his masters were dead. Against all odds, he had survived. He had always known that whichever side would win, he would lose. All there was left now was to atone. The punishment did fit the crime. This purposelessness was worse than pain. It was nothing. Just emptiness.

Soon his mind would get used to the lack of his Occlumency walls and his throat would heal completely. Then he would be truly left with nothing. Just emptiness.

So why bother getting up? Why eat? Why go on? There was no point to him. He could end it now. He could go into the bathroom, fill the tub with warm water, and open his veins with the razor blade he had stolen. It would be hours before Granger came home. He would have bled out by then, he was sure.

Unless... Unless, of course, he wasn’t done atoning. Unless, of course, he still had to pay.

He sat up on the bed.

# # #

Andromeda tickled her grand-son’s nose, smiling as he giggled. Teddy had Nymphadora’s eyes. When he slept, Andromeda’s house was quiet like a tomb. She Vanished the dirty nappy and proceded to put on a fresh one. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her house was supposed to be filled with laughter and joy. Teddy wasn’t supposed to grow up an orphan.

It bothered her. It bothered her that Narcissa’s words had got to her. And it bothered her that it bothered her. When Teddy slumbered and the house was quiet, her thoughts were so loud they were deafening. She put her changed and redressed grand-son in his crib. Teddy’s lids were already drooping. He was an exceptionally well-behaved child, rarely not letting her sleep through the night. No, what kept her awake her were the nightmares and the thoughts whirling on a loop in her restless mind.

She stroke Teddy’s cheek gently, humming his mother’s favourite lullaby to him. The ghost of a smile floated on the boy’s tiny lips. He was such a happy baby. He had no idea he would never know his parents or his grand-father. Andromeda’s heart seized painfully. She missed her husband, her daughter, and her son-in-law with an ache that sometimes turned overpowering. Only Teddy kept her going. He gave her a reason to live.

Blinking away tears she was careful never to let Teddy see, she backed away carefully. His eyes were already closed and he was sleeping peacefully. The oppressive silence had descended upon her once happy home again. And in it Narcissa’s words came back to her.

She found the parchment from her sister in her bedroom, wondering for the umpteenth time why he hadn’t set it on fire that very day. Deep down inside she knew why, though. Nymphadora and her husband had died to provide their son with a better world to grow up in. They hadn’t died to give their side opportunities for vengeance. They had died for their child’s future happiness not for the blood of the fallen.

If the side of Light didn’t live up to its name, then Andromeda has lost her family for nothing.

# # #

The meerschaum pipe was too delicate and ladylike for Pansy, its bowl-shaped like a rose. Daphne guessed she had inherited it from her mother and managed to hide it in her trunk from the Ministry’s rapacious wrath. She watched her old school friend stuff the pipe with some tobacco she had undoubtedly got from the Malfoys then put the bit into her mouth.

“Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” Daphne asked.

Pansy puffed on the pipe. “Draco and I were a little more than children when I had my crush on him, we went to the Yule Ball together and snogged a few times. It all happened ages ago, Daphne. Of course, it doesn’t bother me. Don’t tell anyone, I still have a reputation to protect, but I’m glad for you and Astoria. You’ll have a comfortable home and the Malfoys still have some money left. You’ll be well taken care of.”

Daphne surveyed her friend with no small amount of concern. “What about you, Pansy? I think you could try and talk to Blaise. He’s the best situated of us all. He’s even been allowed to graduate from Hogwarts and his mother’s fortune is intact.”

Pansy watched the cloud of smoke wafting from her pipe with a scornful scoff. “Which makes him the most eligible bachelor of the entire Slytherin House. He has his pick of the litter. Do you really think he’ll bring old Pugface home to his mother? What will happen the first time I open my mouth? I mean, I can fake it for a few months, maybe a year but then a sharp retort or some evidence of my temper will slip out... He doesn’t love me and we were never close friends so he should feel obligated to rescue me. Why marry me when he of all Slytherins can do so much better? No, I think I’ll try and find a job....”

“Not to rain on your parade but you haven’t even graduated. And you’re a Slytherin whose family name is connected to the Dark Lord. Who’ll have you?”

“Nobody on Diagon Alley, that’s for sure, but Knockturn Alley might be worth looking into.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help?” Daphne offered.

“Write me a letter of recommendation and lie that I’m reliable.”

“Who knows? You might be.” Seeing Pansy’s slight, wry smile Daphne hastened to add: “You know, your pug face is slimming down nicely.” It wasn’t an empty compliment. Pansy’s face was indeed in the process of elongating and her eyes now seemed vaguely wider. She had also lost weight because of the stress of recent events. All in all, she was showing all the signs of growing into a lovely young woman but she wasn’t there yet, certainly not to the point where she could satisfy Blaise’s fastidious standards.

Pansy scoffed and sucked on her pipe again. “Why don’t you ask Granger? I’m sure she’ll set you straight on that right away. How she thought I never realised she called me that and went around saying I was a cow, I’d never know! Probably believed I was really dim, the sanctimonious little swot!”

“We weren’t exactly kind to her, either. Remember what you told Rita Skeeter about her in our fourth year?”

“She had it coming,” muttered Pansy dryly. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now, anyway. She was on the right side of history and we weren’t. As much as it pains me to admit it, Granger had the last laugh. She’ll be Minister for Magic one day while I have to beg the lowest tavern in Knockturn Alley to let me sweep their floors for a few sickles. Life’s a funny, funny thing, innit?”

Daphne attempted to rest a comforting hand on Pansy’s shoulder that was nearest to her but the other girl wrenched herself away with a menacing glare. “I forbid you to pity me, Daphne.”

“I don’t pity just you, Pansy. I pity us all.” She paused and cast a quick look around the Malfoy Manor grounds but they seemed to be alone. Still, she continued in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Astoria doesn’t love Draco. Maybe if the circumstances were different and she had more time....”

Pansy whirled around sharply, her eyes glittering dangerously. When she spoke, she gestured with her pipe. “You don’t have time. Blaise may be the ideal option but Draco’s situation is none too shabby, either. Astoria needs to secure him and fast... before a pair of keen eyes latches onto him and sweeps him from under your noses. Astoria needs this more than you do. She’s too delicate for Knockturn Alley work.”

Daphne nodded gloomily. “I know. I’ve already talked to her.”

“Talk to her again, Daphne. She’s young... She’s been expecting something else. The sooner she understands reality for what it truly is, the better off she’ll be.”

The topic of their conversation was walking towards them just then, the setting early autumn sun enveloping her into a halo of bright orange rays. Astoria was wearing a set of flowing flowery robes that accentuated her fragile beauty.

Pansy felt a pang that surprised even her. She had never thought she would miss Hogwarts or the simplicity of attending school. She hadn’t been a particularly good student but she had managed just fine, well enough to have hopes for a job as a curse breaker that was now only a dim, half-remembered dream.

No, she wasn’t beautiful and sweet-natured like Astoria or willing to compromise like Daphne. But she was just as broke and homeless like them. She could never navigate the trappings of a marriage of convenience, hold in the tart retorts long enough or not nag at a husband who would be expecting some peace out of the deal at the very least. No, her best chance was still Knockturn Alley. She had nowhere else to go, tarnished with the Death Eater brush as she was. It didn’t matter that both of her forearms were pristine. The brand all Slytherins bore of late was invisible and it was on their foreheads.

# # #

Borgin and Burkes was far better lit than Pansy recalled. Its windows were no longer musty, either, but so clean they all but sparkled. Gone were the human bones, the rusty, spiked instruments and the blood-stained items. There was not one Hand of Glory in sight. The man behind the counter was tall and lanky with sandy hair that reached to his shoulders. He wore impeccable eggshell-coloured robes.

“Good morning,” said Pansy politely. “I’m looking for Mr. Borgin.”

The young man in front of her raised a curious eye-brow. “I’m Mr. Borgin,” he replied with a smile that showed far too many teeth. “I’m Xavier Borgin, I’ve just taken over the shop from my father. How may I assist, Miss...?”

“Parkinson, Pansy Parkinson.”

The smile on the face of the new Mr. Borgin vanished. “I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”

“What? This is ridiculous. My family has been a loyal patron of this store for generations.”

“That was the old Borgin and Burkes. The shop’s changing, entering a new era of respectability. If we’re no longer selling cursed items and harbouring Death Eaters, the Aurors will have no more cause for their raids.”

“I’m not a Death Eater,” said Pansy fiercely.

Borgin produced his wand. “And I’m not the Wizengamot. I don’t have to care what you did and didn’t do. All I know is that I want you out of my store.”

“It’s not your store, it’s your father’s, and he wouldn’t have stood for this. Letting Aurors intimidate you, a Borgin, it’s disgraceful.”

He snorted. “My father’s someone’s slave. I’m betting he’s standing for a lot of things right now. This is my shop. And I want you out! THIS VERY INSTANT!”

“Fine,” guffawed Pansy. “I’m not in the habit of lingering where I’m not wanted.”

She slammed her door on her way out.

It took Pansy the whole day but she got a variation of the same response wherever she tried on Knockturn Alley. By the time she was done, she was exhausted, famished and her feet hurt. She thought of returning to Malfoy Manor with the tail between her legs, humiliated and desperate to accept more of her hosts’ pity and cringed. It seemed that there was no end in sight to her days of being a charity case.

Gritting her teeth, she decided she would not cry. She ducked beneath a half crumbling archway and took off the only good set of robes left to her. She was wearing Muggle clothes—a black pencil skirt and a simple, lime green blouse—underneath. She shrank her robes to the size of a napkin and put them in her purse. Then she slipped into the bustle of Muggle London.

Her parents had always looked down on Muggles but Pansy had never had any particular opinion on them. They existed, much like the sun and rain did, but other than that she had never afforded them much thought. They had no bearing on her world and she had seen no reason to delve into theirs until now. But now she was discovering a whole new side to the Muggle world: they had no idea who she was. She wasn’t a Slytherin or linked to the side of Darkness there.

She wandered aimlessly for a while, letting her achy feet take her wherever they would and opting not to think. She hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to do next. This wasn’t the plan. None of this was supposed to be happening to her.

A sweet baking aroma tickled her nostrils and halted her steps by a wide window that proffered a generous view into a small, cosy looking bakery. The colourful interior reminded her a bit of Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, and a fresh pang sliced through Pansy. A Formica perched countertop proudly displayed wide glass cases filled with cakes and all kinds of mouth-watering pastries, while a few late customers sat at the smattering of nut-brown tables crowding the floor.

Her stomach growled and she frowned at it, though she didn’t move from her spot on the sidewalk staring at the people inside eating, laughing and drinking tea as if that were the most natural thing in the world. She had been one of the those people once, she remembered, going with Daphne, Millicent, Tracey and later on, Astoria, to either Madam Puddifoot’s or the Three Broomsticks ordering butterbeer and chocolate mint meringues and laughing, carefree and joyful as though the time for such frivolous pastimes could never come to an end.

“Are you hungry?”

Pansy startled and blinked to find herself staring into the kind face of a large, black man towering over her.

“Why don’t you come inside for a cuppa?” he offered.

Pansy felt her cheeks heat up. “No, I was only passing by.”

“Please,” he said. “I own this place. You look like you had a long day and could use some sitting down. I know, I’ve had my fair share of days that just won’t end.”

Later she could never say what made her go in, what made her accept charity from an unknown Muggle rather than her old school boyfriend’s parents. Was that less humiliating? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t tell her. She felt like she didn’t know anything anymore. Her world had been turned upside down and she had a hard time recognizing familiar straits and features.

The man sat her down at a table right near the counter. Soon she had a fogging cup of tea in front of her along plate filled with inviting delicacies.

“Help yourself,” said the stranger. His name was Malcolm, he had said.

Pansy hesitated before snagging a scone. It tasted like the best thing she had ever tried. It occurred to her she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast early that morning. And it was later than she had realised, the last of the bakery customers summoning Malcolm to pay and hurrying to leave one by one, disappearing into the darkening street outsid. Pansy looked at them without really seeing as she busied herself shovelling food into her mouth.

Malcolm fiddled behind the counter for a while then he came to sit across from her. “I’ve been looking for help for a while,” he told her. “Do you have any experiencing waiting tables?”

She shook her head no.

“Well, it’s not like it’s rocket science. You ask the customers what they want and you bring it to them and then they pay up. You won’t get rich doing it but you get to keep the tips.”

Pansy took a large and very unladylike gulp of tea. “When could I start?”

Malcolm smiled. 

TBC


	8. Worlds Apart

Severus found a pair of mean, yellow eyes staring at him from a squashed, ginger face that belonged to a kind of a cat currently sitting on the Granger kitchen counter. The thing hissed at him as he came nearer.

“I’m not any happier to be here,” grumbled Severus.

The creature spat at him. Severus thought he remembered it vaguely. He’s seen it around 12 Grimmauld Place sniffing around Sirius Black. It was no wonder the thing hated him.

“Are you going to try and kill me too?” he asked rummaging through the cabinets for bread to make toast.

The savage mewl he received in reply sounded like an affirmative answer to Severus.

“Make certain you succeed then… unlike your good-for-nothing mentor.”

The cat growled menacingly. Severus paused as he was tossing slices of bread into the pan he had just placed on the fire. He wondered if attempting to bait a pet constituted the first sign of madness. He couldn’t be lucky enough to be losing his mind already. His head still hurt but his morning potions routine had made his neck twinge less.

He managed to ingest and keep down a break of three pieces of buttered toast and two cups of coffee. The cat kept growling at him as he ate, fixing him with an unmoved, threatening glare Severus returned wholeheartedly, but other than that the animal didn’t pounce or attempt to attack him.

The Granger kitchen was filled with gleaming, modern appliances Severus’ own family, or even himself could have never afforded. Hogwarts paid decently but not as well as it could have, the board of governors reckoning that the teachers were getting free room and board throughout the school year. Growing up deprived, Severus’ personal needs were modest but if he wanted to continue his potions experimentations, he had to acquire the ingredients himself, as the school only paid for those he needed to do his job as the formal brewer of the place. Some of the more exotic ingredients his personal research had required were hard to get and expensive.

As a result, he had been left with little money to invest in improving his house at Spinner’s End, not that he had ever seen much point to it, anyway. He spent far too little time there and there was something comforting about coming home to the ill-maintained, dilapidated place. It was uncomfortable and manky but it was home. Come to think of it, the only two homes he had ever had—Spinner’s End and Hogwarts—were both unpleasant in some fashion and filled with the ghosts of past horror. At Spinner’s End it had been the memory of his father’s abuse. At Hogwarts the Marauders’ bullying and his brush with death by werewolf.

Perhaps that was why Granger’s house bothered him so much: it was too clean, too comfortable, and too filled with light. He wondered if it would become home just like the house at Spinner’s End and Hogwarts had. Both had held disturbing memories but in time they had morphed into something familiar that was everything he ever had in this world. Right now he was certainly feeling emotions he frequently associated with Hogwarts and Spinner’s End: despair, dread, and loneliness. Given time, could they also switch into something familiar, soothing almost?

He looked at the cat with a renewed understanding. The creature was jealous, realising that his mistress had acquired a new pet. Maybe it feared being replaced. The cat was a lot like Severus: hideous and disagreeable, and he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to acquire it at the emporium where it had to have been sold. Perhaps Granger was fond of collecting beings such as the two of them: repulsive and unwanted.

The cat was obviously half-Kneazle but Severus bet it purred and allowed Granger to pet it. Would Severus himself become like that too over time, turning from angry and resentful to complacent and prone to eating out of the palm of Granger’s hand? He, too, was a leashed beast, after all, declawed and defanged and rendered helpless for his mistress’ convenience. The thought was horrifying.

He felt like smashing flowery plates and spotless appliances in retaliation, overturning the contents of the large, silvery fridge onto the floor, smearing the unsettling perfection of the kitchen. But Granger could set everything to rights with one flick of her wand. The memory of magic sent a pang rattling through him.

He moved to look out of the window at the neighbouring red-brick house. He was trapped, just as trapped as he had been ad Hogwarts and at Spinner’s End. At least, at Hogwarts he had been allowed the use of magic… as long as it was magic that Dumbledore and his prissy staff approved of… as long as he continued to act as the Headmaster’s leashed, house-trained Dark wizard.

He had never been free, he realised. At home, at Spinner’s End, he had lived under his father’s reign terror. Tobias Snape had ruled over his household with an iron fist and when his fists had grown tired, he had picked up the whip.

Then Severus had been young and foolish enough to take on a new master, a new kind of an abusive father, swayed by promises of recognition, of being seen for the first time in his life, of power and riches so that he could have something to offer Lily at long last. He had always known he could never give her everything James Potter could. He would never be handsome or charming or easy to be around but at least, by joining the Dark Lord, he could have something other than the miserable house at Spinner’s End and abject poverty to offer her. Even in his most deluded fantasies, he couldn’t imagine Lily living in childhood home amongst rickety furniture, mold, and water damage, using the outhouse and carrying water from the communal pump in order to bathe or cook.

It had all been an illusion, of course, and before he even knew, Lily was in danger and Severus had gained another master. Dumbledore had been his kindest master by far. He had never raised a hand or a wand at Severus and had even shown him kindness on occasion. Severus was a Slytherin, he had been fully aware that and when the Headmaster was manipulating him. But kindness was still kindness. He had always known he couldn’t be one of Dumbledore’s favourite pet projects. He was too Dark, too Slytherin, but still, the Headmaster made small, gratuitous gestures towards him, the likes of which Severus had only experienced from Lily before.

Breakfast settled like lead at the bottom of his stomach. He fought off the bout of nausea. His temples were throbbing. He withdrew towards the library, intent on rereading the complete works of William Shakespeare. He resented his ability to read fast as never before. Once he was done with Shakespeare, there were preciously few things left for him to do while whiling away the long, empty hours of the day in the Granger household.

The angry spitting of the cat followed him out of the kitchen.

# # #

Being back at 12 Grimmauld Place had always been a little unsettling for Andromeda. The whirlwind of the war had made it easy to overlook the memories. Not all of them were bad. She remembered the glittering parties Orion and Walburga used to throw, the dresses she and her sister had worn for them and their giggles resounding in the corners. The motley-crew Harry had assembled at the place was strange, not unwelcome but strange.

Molly Weasley certainly was a warm presence. She took Teddy from Andromeda with practiced ease and a wide grin, and led them both to the downstairs kitchen that smelled enticingly and was animated by cheerful voices. Everyone cooed over Teddy, while both Molly and Andromeda kept a close eye on Harry who awkwardly braved holding his godson.

Andromeda helped Molly set the table and soon it was overflowing with roast beef, mashed potatoes, butterbeer and an abundance of treacle tarts, Harry’s favourite dessert. All the Weasleys were present… well, with the exception of Fred whose absence was conspicuous. Andromeda noted Molly and Arthur’s unnaturally pale faces, despite their otherwise jovial attitude, and her heart went out to them, even as she had to stamp down on a stab of unexpected jealousy. Arthur and Molly still had a full house and each other while Andromeda had lost everyone but her grand-son who would now grow up an orphan.

As dinner progressed, Andromeda noticed other things too such as Bill and Fleur Weasley sitting at a respectable distance from Molly and Arthur. In fact, she doubted Molly and daughter-in-law exchanged more than two words all evening. Then there was the fact that Hermione Granger, one third of the Golden Trio, was uncharacteristically quiet. Filtering through the chatter going on around her, Andromeda strove to pay attention to what Ron Weasley was saying to the girl.

“How’s the git tonight? Is he giving you any more trouble?”

“No, he seems to be going out of his way to avoid me,” replied Hermione.

“Probably afraid he might confess to more murders,” said Ron over a full mouth.

Hermione winced at the sight as a few pieces of half-chewed food spitted on the table.

“Did you talk to Kingsley yet?” Harry interjected.

Hermione nodded somberly, most of her food untouched on the plate. “He agrees with you. He also reckons my testimony should be enough for the Wizengamot but he says there’s not much they can do besides reconfirm Snape’s already standing life sentence.”

“At least, Miss Burbage would get a trial,” Harry went on. “That should be of some comfort to her parents.”

“Some but not much,” answered Ron casting a less than discreet glance in his parents’ direction.

Ice spread slowly in Andromeda’s veins as the meaning of their words sunk home. She took a sip of her butterbeer as she composed herself then muttered a mostly ignored excuse about going to the loo.

With a baby in the house, Andromeda was well versed in the art of moving swiftly and soundlessly. So she made it upstairs in virtually no time. She slipped into Regulus’ room, which she estimated to be the safest.

“Kreacher,” she called out. “Kreacher, where are you?”

The house elf popped into existence at her side.

She lowered herself to his level and began to speak urgently and furtively, dearly hoping she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. “Kreacher, I know you have a new Master now.”

Kreacher bowed all the way to the floor. “Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black… Mistress Andromeda. He always did!”

Andromeda took a deep breath. _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , as her Muggle-born and raised husband had been fond of saying. “Is Hermione Granger Severus Snape’s guardian?”

“She is… nasty, little Mudblood that she is… always trying to give Kreacher clothes… when she herself keeps a wizard as a house elf.”

Andromeda flinched at the insult but knew that Kreacher could hardly be blamed for the things that had been indoctrinated into him since he was born. The Blacks were all Kreacher knew; they had been his family and he loved them. It stood to reason he had learned to imitate their manner of speaking and behaving. “Did you hear her talk about him?” she asked after another deep, unsteady breath.

“She be speaking about him a lot, Mistress. Only a few nights ago she said she put him under the Cruciatus curse.”

The ice in Andromeda’s veins seeped into her bones and leaked into her muscles. “Kreacher… are you certain? Are you absolutely sure that was what you heard?”

Kreacher nodded gravely. “Kreacher lives in the kitchen. Kreacher is hearing the things they say all the time even if they are not seeing Kreacher. Kreacher heard the Mudblood speak of the Cruciatus curse. Kreacher remembers it well, Mistress… from the Dark Lord.” He paused with a wince, his eyes taking on a watery, far away look. “The Cruciatus means pain. And the new Master told his mudblood friend that she isn’t needing to worry about it… because he used the curse too… during the war. Yes, Mistress Andromeda, they all agreed… Master Regulus’ housemate deserved the curse because he killed another teacher.”

“A certain Miss Burbage, right?”

“Yes… Charity Burbage… that was being her name. She taught vile untruths about Muggles and Mudbloods, Mistress. Perhaps that was why Master Regulus’ housemate killed her. As punishment.”

Andromeda drew herself back to her feet with a sigh. She looked around the room with a heavy heart. Regulus had been only a kid, sixteen-years old, when he took the mark. Regulus, the unknown hero, who had turned on Voldemort and died in order to facilitate his defeat. Regulus, the son of two Dark wizards, who had loved a house elf so much, that he had betrayed the most powerful of all Dark wizards for his sake.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” she said meaningfully, hard-pressed to name the instinct rising within her.

The house elf bowed again before he disappeared with a crack.

Andromeda slipped out of Regulus’ bedroom before she could be missed by the rest of the dinner party. She didn’t really know Severus Snape. She had already graduated by the time he had attended Hogwarts. All she had of him were second-hand stories, mostly coming from her own daughter, whom he had taught Potions. Nymphadora had painted him as a harsh yet highly competent teacher. The most Andromeda had seen of him was in this very house back when he had still been believed to be a loyal member of the Order of Phoenix.

Nymphadora and her husband had been more surprised that Snape had managed to fool Dumbledore rather than being taken aback by his betrayal. Apparently, the entire Order had more or less quietly doubted his loyalties. Harry and his friend Ron were very vocal about the fact that they had never believed that Snape had turned on Voldemort.

If school children could figure out as much, then how come Dumbledore had failed to see what had been apparently blatantly obvious? Dumbledore, an extremely powerful and old wizard who had been a wartime leader many times before? Dumbledore, a famed Legilimens? Had he truly put his faith in Snape so naively, so blindly, almost foolishly? What reasons could Dumbledore possibly have to trust a Death Eater to such an extent? A Death Eater just about anybody else suspected and within reason, no less. A Death Eater the Order of the Phoenix had only trusted because Dumbledore himself had vouched for him. But why had Dumbledore himself believed in Snape to such an extent? Something didn’t add up.

As she re-entered the kitchen, Andromeda shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind and plastered a would-be easy smile on her lips. She sat back down at the table just in time to see Molly and Fleur exchange a less than covert glare. Seeming to continue a previously started conversation, Molly went on with her opinion on wizarding music. Fleur was slow in covering a delicate, very ladylike snort.

# # #

“Severus didn’t kill Charity Burbage. The Dark Lord did.”

Narcissa settled her cup back on her saucer and leaned back in her seat, regarding her sister gravely. They were alone in Andromeda’s home. She had left Teddy back at 12 Grimmauld Place with Harry and a visiting Molly Weasley.

“How can you be sure?” asked Andromeda.

Narcissa’s customary pallor turned waxy. “I was there,” she replied quietly, a dim horror filling her eyes. “As was Lucius and Draco… and a few others. The Dark Lord and Wormtail had been torturing Charity. I remembered thinking it would be kinder if they just killed her… if they ended it.” Narcissa appeared to be suppressing a shudder. “Severus came in late. I remember the Dark Lord saying something about him losing his way. Then he killed her, the Dark Lord, I mean. It was that article in the Daily Prophet, the one about breeding with Muggles, that drew his attention. So he killed her and fed her to Nagini. Severus never laid a single finger on her.”

The ice returned to Andromeda’s veins. “Then why would he tell Hermione Granger that it was he who committed the murder? He must have known that would mean a second trial.”

Narcissa’s pale eye-brows drew closer. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of things people would admit to while under the Cruciatus curse.”

It was Andromeda’s turn to be racked by a tremor.

Narcissa looked down at her half-drunk cup of tea then back up at Andromeda. “I’m well aware I am the last person in the world who should be judging anyone but you asked. So I’m telling you the truth… as far as I know it.”

“It was supposed to be different this time…. We were supposed to be different.”

Narcissa shrugged. “Wars merely change who’s in charge, not their habits. You are at an age when you should be well past youthful notions of idealism, Andromeda.”

Andromeda jerked to her feet. “My family didn’t die just so we could replace Voldemort’s puppet with a member of the Order of the Phoenix at the top of the Ministry!”

Narcissa held up a hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about who and what you supported during the war. I just mean… nothing ever truly changes, does it? Look at the Daily Prophet, for instance! Yesterday they were praising the Dark Lord and calling Harry Potter Undesirable Number One. Before that they held that Potter and Dumbledore were deluded nutters for claiming the Dark Lord had returned. Now they are painting Potter him as the Saviour of Wizardkind and mourning Dumbledore as a great leader. It’s the same people writing the articles, only the titles differ.” She paused to stir aimlessly at her tea with a spoon. “All I asked for was a few addresses so that the children of our House could see their parents if only from a distance.”

“Severus Snape has no children yet you put him down on that list as well.”

“Because Lucius and I could never repay him for what he did for Draco.”

Andromeda sat back down. “You mean when he killed Dumbledore so your son wouldn’t have to?”

Faint pink blossomed across Narcissa’s prominent cheekbones. “I never claimed Severus was not a Death Eater. He was… is! But that doesn’t make him guilty of every atrocity committed during the war.” Here Narcissa halted again, frowning a little. “In fact… he always seemed to find a way out of participating in raids and…. Do you know that Bellatrix actually thought that the Dark Lord shouldn’t trust him, that he had deserted to Dumbledore for good?”

The cold in Andromeda’s blood enveloped her more fully. “Do you think it could be true? That he’s innocent?”

Narcissa shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. The Dark Lord was a vastly skilled Legilimens. He was in Severus’ mind many times. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes. If Severus had betrayed him, the Dark Lord would have seen it.”

“Dumbledore was a vastly skilled Legilimens too. If Severus Snape had stayed loyal to Voldemort, wouldn’t _he_ have seen it?”

“Severus killed Dumbledore in front of many witnesses, my song among them. There can be no doubt about that. If Severus were truly loyal to Dumbledore, then why would he do something like this? Even if he meant to help Draco, I’m sure he could have found other means of accomplishing that without taking Dumbledore’s life…. Andromeda, if you need Severus to be innocent in order to assist our Slytherins….”

Andromeda threw up her arms in exasperation. “Don’t you see? If Severus was on our side the whole time, then it means that we’ve enslaved an innocent man, an ally. That the friend of my grand-son’s godfather tortured said innocent man while he couldn’t defend himself…. Do you think I’d rather have _this_ be true? Nothing could make Hermione’s torture of a wandless, magicless man acceptable for no other reason than we claimed to be better, to be the side of Light, to be above what Voldemort and his followers did. But if he’s innocent….” Andromeda stopped struck by a sudden idea. “Then why didn’t he say so?”

“We couldn’t speak to him before his trial… not even to prepare his defence. The Aurors said it was a matter of security not to let Death Eaters and their associates congregate too much. And if he was Dumbledore’s man all along, then he would have a triple agent. The less evidence there was of his genuine allegiance, the safer he was.”

“If he is indeed innocent, then he can’t prove it,” murmured Andromeda dully, the realisation sinking like a stone to the pit of her stomach. “Still once the war was over he must have told the Aurors… Ministry… anyone.”

“And why should they have believed him?” retorted Narcissa. “I have no reason to think he is the scum of the earth, unlike everyone else right now, and _I_ have a hard time believing it. It sounds outlandish, mad…. Why would he even do this? The risk he took returning to the Dark Lord’s side day in and day out is immense. Not to mention the level of Occlumency he would have had to have achieved in order to hoodwink one of the greatest Legilimens of all times! Why would anyone do something like this?”

Andromeda sighed. What had come over her to think along these lines just because what she had learned of Harry’s close friend had disturbed her? When Narcissa put it this way, it truly sounded impossible. Insane to even contemplate.

The cup Narcissa was in the process of lifting to her mouth slipped through her fingers and knocked against the table, shattering upon impact. Narcissa’s lips went white. Andromeda looked at her sister in alarm.

“I can’t believe I’ve never even considered the possibility!” Narcissa’s voice was barely above a thin squeak. She cleared her throat. “Of course! _Cherchez la femme_!”

Andromeda was lost. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seek the woman,” Narcissa translated.

“Thank you,” shot back Andromeda caustically. “I haven’t completely forgotten all of my French.”

Narcissa’s eyes glittered like dark precious gems. “Lily Evans,” she said simply as if that explained everything.

TBC


	9. The Muggle Coefficient

“Lily Evans?” Andromeda squinted as her brows creased in thought. “I don’t remember anyone by that name in our House. Evans is not a wizarding family name, though. I suppose she was half-blood much like Severus.”

Narcissa pulled out her wand and waved it over the broken pieces of china. “Reparo,” she said and then levitated the reconstituted cup back onto its saucer. Only then did she lift her gaze back to her sister. She smiled at Andromeda’s obvious confusion. “She wasn’t in our House. She was in Gryffindor. And she wasn’t half-blood. She was Muggle-born. You might know her better as Lily Potter. She’s the mother of your grand-son’s god-father, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter,” she finished with a flourish.

Andromeda blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyes bulged tellingly. “What kind of twisted joke is this, Narcissa?” she spat, sounding both incredulous and irate.

Narcissa leaned back in her seat her grin becoming one of satisfaction. “This is not a joke, I assure you. In fact, I’m a bit embarrassed it hasn’t occurred to me before. It’s just the school was a while back and with everything that has happened since... it simply slipped my mind but it fits. It fits perfectly! Everything makes sense when viewed from this perspective.”

Andromeda shot her an ugly look. “Anytime you might wish to explain yourself is excellent from _my_ perspective.”

Narcissa smirked unable to contain her jubilation. This was just beautiful! If only they could prove it! Because Narcissa was looking forward to knocking down the triumphant side of Light a peg or two. Besides, she was a social pariah; there wasn’t much for her to occupy her time with these days. She could certainly use a hobby. “I’m surprised Sirius and your son-in-law didn’t happen to mention any of this to the Chosen One and his friends. Then again maybe they didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that their Gryffindor Princess, the sainted Lily Potter, nee Evans, used to run with a dirty, little Slytherin.”

Andromeda seemed stunned. “Harry’s mother and Severus Snape used to see each other back at Hogwarts?”

Narcissa giggled waving a dismissive hand towards Andromeda. “Your time with Gryffindors has indeed made you naive, my dear sister. No girl would have been caught dead with Severus Snape! It would have been social suicide. And Lily Evans was pretty, very pretty, and popular... so popular in fact that she had admirers even in Slytherin, Muggle-born though she was. While Severus... Severus was always a little odd... brilliant but odd. The brain isn’t exactly visible and what was visible of him didn’t paint the most attractive picture in any sense of the word. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t afford a single piece of candy while visiting Hogsmeade. He couldn’t exactly gift his beloved chocolates... or anything else for that matter.”

“What difference does it make?” snapped Andromeda.

“I know you like to think of yourself as a martyr for love, Andromeda, but this is a lovely home with all the markings of a comfortable life. You should have seen the Muggle dunghill Severus used to occupy. Humiliating as that might be, I’m certain being a slave to the Granger girl is actually an improvement. No woman is romantic enough to follow a man into a half-collapsed hut where she would have nothing. In any case, Lily Evans married James Potter, the wealthy, pure-blood Seeker hero of Gryffindor all the girls who didn’t want Sirius dreamed of. I could almost admire her for that. Sirius was disowned but Potter kept all his fortune.”

“Until both Lily and James Potter died very young by their baby boy’s crib,” commented Andromeda acidly.

“You don’t have to explain to me the horrors of war, Andromeda,” muttered Narcissa matching her sister’s tart tone as she was sitting up stiffly in her chair. “Anyway, reverting back to the matter at hand, before they had a falling-out of sorts, Severus used to follow Evans around like a lost puppy. It was so obvious he was in love with her, it was disgusting. The entire school knew.... Nothing came out of it, of course. The only part more evident than Severus’ feelings was the inevitability of Evans moving on to greener pastures. Lucius even theorized at some point that Severus might have been heart-broken over the entire affair. He swore there was even brooding involved. Then again Severus joined the Dark Lord shortly after graduating from Hogwarts and Lucius assumed he had simply moved on.”

“You never forget your first love,” said Andromeda, a faraway look plastered on her face.

Narcissa swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. She looked at her long-estranged sister with genuine sympathy. “If you are right,” she continued after a brief pause. “And Severus truly turned on the Dark Lord then it all started with the threat to Lily Evans’ life.”

“We need to speak to him,” said Andromeda gravely. “I can visit Hermione Granger... perhaps obtain a private audience with Severus.”

“What are you going to do if he confirms everything we suspect but there is no proof of his innocence?”

“Then we will fabricate some!”

Narcissa began to laugh, the sound airy as it reverberated around them. “I knew there was a Slytherin buried somewhere deep within you just dying to come to light.”

Andromeda glared at her. “My inner Slytherin is not the issue here. The crux of the matter remains: if he was really on his side, then why did Severus Snape kill Dumbledore?”

To that Narcissa had no answer to give. Andromeda had a point: even if Severus could be acquitted of being a Death Eater, the murder charge would not go away. It was enough to keep him either a slave or in Azkaban for the rest of his life, especially as he had done it by casting an Unforgivable. To prove that the side of Light had convicted one of their own would be vindication after the travesty that had been Severus’ trial but it would be a hollow, incomplete one. There could be no justification for Dumbledore’s murder.

“Perhaps he had grown tired of Dumbledore’s sermonizing,” offered Narcissa.

Andromeda winced but then a devious look entered her eyes. “Come now, Cissy, if any of the Hogwarts professors were to kill Dumbledore, they would have done it on any of the many occasions he forced everyone to sing that awful school anthem.”

Narcissa laughed but it was cut short. “The last time _you_ called me Cissy I was 12-years old.”

Andromeda hid her small, fond smile behind a shrug. “You could’ve come to see me and my family at least once, you know.”

“So could you,” retorted Narcissa.

“What would your husband have had to say about _that_?”

“Before or after I was finished cursing him?”

It was Andromeda’s turn to laugh.

# # #

Pansy could not understand why so many pure-bloods hated Muggles. The difficulties of working without magic more than made up for the crime of their mere existence. She had considered both suicide and resignation numerous times during her first day waiting table at Malcolm's bakery. Sometimes she had considered those two recourses at the same time, unable to decide which one would end her suffering faster.

The Muggle shoes she had transfigured had caused her blisters within an hour and their short, sturdy heels she had judged comfortable had tuned the soles of her feet in square inches of pure agony. The temptation to take out her wand had nearly overwhelmed logic and basic common sense on more than one occasion. The Slytherin in her had refused to bested by a Muggle job, though. So she had stayed on until the end of the day even as she felt nauseated and had to wonder many times why being a Muggle waitress wasn’t the forth Unforgivable Curse. The Cruciatus couldn’t possibly hurt more!

Malcolm's bakery was just as small as it had seemed to her the night he had hired her after she had been tossed out of Knockturn Alley as damaged goods. Until recently he had been running it exclusively with his family but as its popularity grew, it had become obvious he needed to hire help.

After lunch, Malcolm had suggested she took a break so Pansy staggered uncertainly to the tiny, one-way alley behind the bakery where she slowly sank onto the pavement. Struck by sudden inspiration she kicked off her loafers then sighed. It was pure bliss! Who knew that the simple act of taking off one’s shoes could be so rewarding?

“You need trainers.”

Startled Pansy jumped back to her feet. It was only Zahara, Malcolm's wife, however.

“I came out for a smoke,” explained Zahara as she made the short trip to stand next to Pansy. She held out to the witch a square white package with a bulky blue stripe in the middle. “Want one?”

Pansy peered dubiously at the slim, white stick sticking out of its sheeting. She was aware that Muggles habitually smoked something called cigarettes, unlike witches and wizards who preferred the pipe exclusively, but she had never tried one. She reckoned that she might as well help herself to some Muggle comforts if she had already plunged head-first into the insanity of taking a job among them. She gingerly eased the cigarette out of its pack.

Zahara clicked on a small metallic box and a short flame burst out of it. Pansy could not believe her eyes. This was a lot like magic. Did Muggles practice their own kind of magic? And if they did, how come nobody in the wizarding world seemed to know about it?

Zahara touched the flame to the end of Pansy’s cigarette then lit up herself. Pansy put the cigarette between her lips and drew on it curiously. The taste on the back of her tongue was different from that of the pipe but she had to admit it wasn’t bad. It was milder and less tangy but definitely interesting.

“You know,” Zahara began, startling Pansy out of her contemplation of the Muggle smoking contraption. “Malcolm has told me a few things about you after last night.... I hope... I realise this is awkward and I don’t want to embarrass you but if you need help, you can come to us. For instance, Malcolm didn’t think to ask... you know how men can be.... Do you have a place to stay?”

Pansy wasn’t embarrassed, she was humiliated but then again she was currently accepting charity from the Malfoy family and striving to escape that predicament by way of a Muggle job she found hard to do. Humiliation seemed to be the new norm for her. Her cheeks burning, she looked away. “I am staying at a friend’s house,” she replied. It was true enough.

“Oh... that’s good!”

She studied Zahara out of the corner of one eye. She shuffled her feet appearing to cast for something else to say. “Our youngest just loves this band,” she said as an uncomfortable silence had begun to fill the space between them.

Pansy looked around, confused as to her meaning. Zahara pointed to an open window carved into the building in front of them. A steady, angry staccato did indeed beat out of it spilling unfamiliar sounds above Pansy’s head. Of course, Muggle music would be playing in the heart of Muggle London. Pansy had had no experience with it before.

 _I'm worse at what I do best_ _  
And for this gift I feel blessed_

“You’ll meet her when she comes over after school,” Zahara continued but Pansy was only half listening.

The words of the song made absolutely no sense to her and the music was bizarre, unlike anything that could be heard in the wizarding world. Wizarding music was simple and flawless, and Pansy didn’t have any in-depth knowledge of it. That was the domain of refined souls such as Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. This melody was sheer cacophony, jumbled and twisted like a knot of feelings that were hard to unravel. The singer—a man—was yelling about something and the rhythm had a burning fury encased within it that seemed to resonate to the impotent rage and frustration that at times threatened to overwhelm Pansy. She wanted to shout like that man sometimes but it went against everything she had been taught as a Parkinson and as a Slytherin. But then so did bringing Muggles food until your feet bled.

She drew on her Muggled cigarette thinking. Perhaps her new job didn’t go against everything that made her a Slytherin, though. Self-preservation was a deeply Slytherin trait, after all. Many witches and wizards despised Muggles, they just were usually more discreet about it than most Slytherins. Only a Slytherin would have accepted a menial job in the Muggle world in order to survive. Suddenly the notion was no longer degrading but almost empowering.

She turned to Zahara, the stub of her dying cigarette dangling between two of her fingers. It really hadn’t been bad! “What is the name of the band your younger daughter likes?”

# # #

Severus would have given anything to be able to perform a silencing charm. He even raised his hand in the air, watching the yellowing spots that came with potion making now much faded from his whitening skin, and traced the wand movement with his fingers. The pang was nearly unbearable. There was no crack of magic itching to burst from his skin. It was as if the collar around his neck had killed that crucial part of himself that had been his only comfort in so many dark times before.

Without magic he felt adrift, falling with no chance of finding anything to grasp onto in order to keep himself upright. Right now worse than even the harrowing loss of magic were the screams coming from downstairs and travelling through the walls until they reached his ears in a muted fashion. He couldn’t make out words but then he had no interest in the precise topic of Granger and Weasley’s quarrel.

The young love birds fought a lot and often. It wasn’t any different from school really when his Legilimency abilities had caught an astounding amount of animosity between the two supposed friends. He assumed that as adolescents the fighting had seemed exciting but now as they were hurtling towards adulthood, it was starting to turn exhausting.

He would have spied on them for no other reason than to alleviate the extreme emptiness of his days as Granger’s slave but her relationship with Weasley was so dull and predictable they were actually more boring than staring at the walls. Weasley obviously wanted to marry his mother which Granger was decidedly not. Since both were oblivious to this readily apparent truth, they fought. It beat having nothing to talk about, he expected. The two of them had nothing in common other than Harry Potter. However, with Voldemort dead, even that subject was growing stale. So that left Granger and Weasley with nothing but the screaming matches.

Granger was currently busy with her research for a reform of the house elf system that Severus was certain said elves would resent her for and helping out the relatives of those who had gone missing during the war track down their loved ones. So Weasley, who clearly received massive favouritism in Auror training due to his status as a war hero and Harry Potter’s friend and hence had abnormal quantities of spare time, was jealous and constantly demanded she spent more time with him. And Granger did the one thing even Severus knew one was not supposed to do in a romantic entanglement: failed to let sleeping dogs lie. She brought up Weasley’s past misdeeds and petty jealousies. Things always escalated quickly past that point and built to the explosive conclusion that had Weasley slamming the door after him and Granger crying. Usually by that time Severus was done cursing the day he had been born.

He thought the word _tempus_ without thinking. Nothing happened except the twinge of absence getting worse. Stifling a sigh, he glanced to the clock on the bedside cabinet. Weasley and Granger had approximately another hour of yelling to do. He almost wished his head-aches hadn’t let up. As the days had bled into weeks, his throat had been steadily getting better too. Incredibly enough, he realised he would miss the pain. It had been a familiar friend keeping him company in the endless days he spent roaming Granger’s dully posh abode with nothing but a pretentious and repetitive collection of Shakespeare to entertain him.

It was a new brand of torture, this lack of purpose and activity. Since the Cruciatus incident, Granger had been doing everything in her power to see as little of him as possible. If it was a bid to punish him for baiting her, Severus was forced to admit that it was working. The barrenness of his days was driving him insane. Unfortunately, it wasn’t doing it fast enough. He feared he would soon be reduced to snarling back at Granger’s ill-tempered cat just to break the routine. He wished Granger were back to torturing him. At least, that was familiar territory.

Even as his thoughts strayed down that path, he had to wonder why he had baited her the way he had. The reason buried at the back of his mind unsettled him some more. As if his many regrets and nightmares weren’t enough. What was unnerving was not that he thought along those lines but the impossible to curb need to know. It astounded even him. He hadn’t been aware that he cared so much for the so-called cause of the Light. He had always been convinced he was doing everything for Lily, to expiate his guilt, to pay his debt to her. And that was a big part of it, of course. He still loved Lily with an all-consuming fierceness.

He still needed to know, however. That he had done the right thing. That he had backed the right side. That the victors could build a better world. That they did embody everything that was good and filled with light as Dumbledore had seemed so keen on making everyone believe. That Severus’ sacrifices had meant something. That the scorn and hatred he was enduring were not senseless. That he had been ready to die for the correct cause. That he had not helped replace a monster with a group of cynical bureaucrats. If he could believe that, he could accept the shame of being a glorified slave and the emptiness of his current existence.

Yet the moment the first _Crucio_ had passed Hermione Granger’s lips his conviction had started to wobble and it had been wavering ever since. He tried to console himself with the thought of the lives he had helped save but the dead were just as many.

The Aurors guarding him at St. Mungo’s had taken great delight in reading him the list of the dead and the missing with the goal of stressing the heinousness of his crimes. For every life he had saved, there seemed to be two or three he had failed to protect. Technically, his true side had won the war but it felt like a loss. He knew that most Slytherins had been expelled from Hogwarts, that his House, the House of his mother, was living its last days, the victors too busy assigning collective blame to discern individual guilt.

Surely Voldemort needed to be stopped and Severus himself needed to pay for what he had done. But if victory wasn’t the beginning of a new and better reality, if the divide not only continued to exist but also deepened within the wizarding community, hadn’t all that blood been spilled in vain? Hadn’t he ripped his soul for nothing? It had bigger than his own personal redemption, bigger than all of them, it had to mean something. Something that would heal the profound division in their society. Only then could the rise of a new Dark Lord become unthinkable. Otherwise, two wars had come and gone for nothing because they were only biding their time until the third one.

Slytherins were not the type to take anything lying down. They would remember this pain and this humiliation. They would remember how their children had been treated and how prisoners of war had been made into slaves. And one day, not very far into the future, a charismatic madman or madwoman would seize upon that desire for vengeance and the circle would begin anew.

The slamming of a door that reverberated all the way to him distracted him from his bleak musings. It seemed that Weasley had decided to start his parting routine early that evening. He wondered how Granger, who was not a dunderhead, could not see where they were headed. Severus had no doubt she would marry Weasley and soon. Then twenty or thirty years down the road when the fights would have lost all of their youthful lacklustre and the awkward silences would have grown to occupy most of their time alone, they would have nothing but their undoubtedly many children and avoidance tactics left between them. Granger was certain to become Minister for Magic and Weasley was certain to live in his wife’s shadow just as he had once lived in that of his siblings and of Harry Potter. And his resentment would grow, while his many insecurities would drive his jealousy to new heights matched only by Granger’s accumulating frustrations.

Since magic marital bonds were impossible to dissolve, he expected Granger would have to end up introducing her pure-blood future husband to the Muggle concept of couple’s therapy. Either that or one day one of them would come home to find the other in bed with someone half their age in a desperate bid to recover something long-lost, and it would all end up in a bloody murder-suicide affair. That should at least make Rita Skeeter happy!

He shook his head. That decided it then. He was indeed losing his mind, albeit too slowly for his tastes. How else could he explain his sudden preoccupation with the future Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley? He needed to go back to planning his own suicide. That was slightly less morbid.

TBC


	10. A Fool’s Errand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the lack of updates. Something terrible has happened to me in my private life and I'm nowhere near being ready to talk about it. I can't promise any sort of regular updates but rest assured: my stories are not abandoned. I just have a hard time writing.

Pansy was scrubbing diligently at an unidentified congealed mass etched onto a quarter of one of the tables at the Muggle pastry shop where she worked as a waitress. The flesh under her fingernails ached yet she kept on scrubbing. Channelling energy into the simple task she could have accomplished with a flick of her wand felt strangely rewarding.

The shop was closed. The owner – Malcolm –and his family were in the back, cleaning the kitchen. Malcom’s elder son had put on something called a cassette tape of a Muggle music band he liked. The thumping beat and the angry energy of the tune vibrated in her chest. The singer was yelling, all impotent fury and despair, the jagged music unlike nothing in the steady, melodic compositions of the wizarding world.

 _Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage_ __  
Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage  
Someone will say, "What is lost can never be saved"

Pansy straightened as Zahara, Malcolm’s wife, began to chide her son about the screaming music reverberating around the cosy interior of the shop. Pansy wrung her rag into the bowl of rapidly cooling soapy water. Something hot was running down her cheeks. She dabbed at her face with the back of one hand. She was crying, she realised.

Odd, because she was not the crying type!

# # #

The sun was setting over the lush grounds of Malfoy manners, bathing the realm into the golden orange of blossoming autumn. Concealed behind a towering bush, Daphne watched her sister and Draco Malfoy feed the peacocks. The Malfoys had quite a few of those blasted birds. Daphne was indifferent towards them but Astoria was afraid of them for some unfathomable reason.

However, just now, Astoria tossed grain from the small sack Draco was carrying, feeding the birds that unsettled her. They were talking yet their words failed to carry all the way to Daphne. Astoria laughed at some point, the sound breathy and crystalline. The peacocks’ brightly coloured feathers glimmered in the dying sunlight. A few of them were white, their extraordinary tails spread like a bridal veil.

Daphne wondered for the umpteenth time if she was doing the right thing by pushing her sister in Draco’s arms. It was the logical thing to do to put a roof over their heads. Astoria’s beauty was the only currency they had left. But was it the right thing? What even was the right thing?

Daphne would have appreciated the advice of her parents but they were not there, were they not? She and Astoria had nobody but each other to rely on. As the older sister, it fell to Daphne to make all the difficult decisions.

Stifling a sigh that ran the risk of being heard, Daphne turned away from the pair. Astoria was no longer a child and she needed to learn to make her way into the world of the adults, especially given their brutal change in circumstances. Hogwarts and their childhood were behind them. They needed to look upfront and if Astoria was reluctant to, Daphne had to do it for her, no matter her misgivings.

# # #

Severus opened his eyes and cast tempus without thinking. It was the first thing he had been doing after waking up for decades. Nothing happened, of course. Reality came crushing in along with the discreet weight of the collar around his neck. Lifting his head, he glanced at the ridiculous vintage clock on the bedside table. Then he let himself collapse back onto the pillows. What difference did it make what time it was? It wasn’t like he had a reason to get up.

His father had beaten self-pity out of him early on. Yet, now, he had nothing left other than wallowing in it. Fury, lack of purpose and self-pity.

He squinted against the pervasive light in the room and turned on his side.

He didn’t know if it had been hours or mere minutes when the knock on the door came. He grew dizzy when he sat up on the bed and only then realised the room was in darkness. He scrubbed a hand over his faze before calling out with customary politeness.

“Just a moment, please.”

He flicked on the bedside lamp, hastily pulled the covers over the bed and jumped into a pair of trousers and a long, white shirt.

Granger was standing on the other side of the door, pale and resolute. She wore a robe instead of the Muggle attire he was used to seeing her in around the house. She had to have just returned from work.

Severus sneered, curling his upper lip with all the derision he could muster while doing his best not to sway on his feet.

“May I come in?” she asked carefully.

“It _is_ your house,” he pointed out, still blocking her entry with his body. He imagined he would cut a more impressive figure in a robe but putting one was inconceivable. It reminded him too much of his lost magic.

“Yes, this is your room... for the time being.” She paused her eyes fixed on him with typical Gryffindor brazenness. “Could we please have just one civil conversation? If only for tonight?”

He glared at her. “What you do want?” he asked coolly.

“I brought a list of names of witches and wizards who disappeared during the war. Their friends and families are looking for them. I thought that... maybe you could point the Ministry in the right direction... without further incriminating yourself and your... comrades naturally.”

“How gracious of you,” he bit out. “I fail to recall you affording me similar consideration when you asked such a question before.”

“Please.... The Office for Victims and Veterans Outreach exhausted all other avenues. If you could only look at the list of names, perhaps you might’ve heard something.”

She held out the parchment to him but he didn’t reach for it. The thought that if the circumstances were different he would have helped flitted into his pounding head. He turned and walked away from the door to sit on the edge of the bed. There was another reason why he couldn’t take the paper from her. He was certain she would notice his shaking fingers.

Cold sweat ran on the back of his neck. He sat down before he could keel over.

Granger followed him inside. It was unsettling, intimate somehow in a sickening way. Though he had always been at the disposal of his Slytherins, he had never allowed a student in his quarters at Hogwarts. But, of course, he wasn’t at Hogwarts anymore. And as he had observed, this was Granger’s house. He was currently sitting on a piece of furniture that her parents had bought and during the passing day he had failed to eat food Granger herself had acquired. It was much too late for consideration of propriety.

Granger set the bit of parchment next to him on the bed, keeping her distance as if he were a dangerous wild animal. He supposed the comparison was apt, though it wasn’t like he was still capable of biting.

He glanced at the list of names and the matching dates of disappearances.

“All these witches and wizards vanished while I was Hogwarts Headmaster,” he observed. “You cannot imagine the Dark Lord sent me daily updates on whom the Snatchers caught and what they did with them.” It was the truth. He had no idea what had happened to these people, though he did feel a pang at the length of the list.

She shook her head, eying him suspiciously. “I’d hoped you might’ve heard something... not matter how apparently insignificant. We need every clue we can get.”

He looked the list over again, the writing beginning to blur before his very eyes. He squinted but that only sent a sharp lick of pain crossing from temple to temple. A few of the names were familiar.

“I recognize some of these names,” he said as if to himself. “They belong to former Hogwarts students.”

Grief momentarily overwhelmed the physical malaise and for a few brief moments he could focus properly. “But I do not know what happened to them,” he said truthfully. He turned his head towards Granger. “I can tell you every grade they ever got in Potions. I can tell you of every time I discovered them in the corridors after curfew. I can tell you when they graduated. But I cannot tell you if they live still or if they are dead and how they died.”

Granger looked as ill as he felt. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Force me to drink Veritaserum if you do not believe me. Without my Occlumency walls, I am just as susceptible to it as anyone else.”

“You of all people could resist by sheer force of will... out of spite, if nothing else.”

“Believe what you want,” he said dryly. “This time, however, I honestly cannot be of any help.”

“This time? Because you were of such help with Ms. Burbage?”

The name stung.

“You can use the Cruciatus on me again if you think it will take you further than the Veritaserum.”

Granger winced. Her eyes were far too shiny. “Ms. Burbage never hurt a soul,” she snapped, though she sounded wounded rather than angry. “You’ll pay for what you did to her.”

“I lost everything a wizard has to loose, except my life, and I cannot think of anything less worthless right now.”

“What about your soul? Is there anything even remotely human left in you?”

He looked her in the eye. “Ask your good friend, the Chosen One. He was there the night I lost my soul.”

“Maybe everyone’s right about you. And taking you in _was_ a fool’s errand.”

“Even if everyone was wrong about me, what difference would it make?”

She scowled, though she still seemed close to tears. “What do you mean?”

“I am long since beyond salvation, Miss Granger. There is no balm for your frail ego to be found with me. If you wish to accomplish the ultimate act of Gryffindor fortitude and redeem a Death Eater, you have set your sights on the wrong target. There are few those who are as far from absolution as me, because I cannot even be bothered to pretend I desire it. I have no need of your fruitless efforts at rescue, you, foolish girl. The only half decent thing your lot could have done for me was let me die.” 

“Do you really expect me to believe that? Slytherins are survivors.”

“I realise that might be hard for you to believe, given where you grew up, but not all lives are worth living, Miss Granger.”

“Just because I grew up here, it doesn’t mean I didn’t know hardships.”

“And why do you insist on prolonging them by keeping me here?”

“Do you genuinely think you’d be better off with anyone else? Why does it bother you so much that it’s me? Because you despised me as student? Because you loathe all Gryffindors?” She inched closer at his scoff and grabbed the parchment from the bed. “Or is it because I keep forcing you to face the consequences of your actions? Of the Dark Lord’s reign of terror?”

Severus stood, though his knees felt like they could buckle anytime. “You self-important little nothing! I live every day with the consequence of what I have wrought. Do you truly believe your pitiful attempts at saving those who cannot be helped can add so much as an ounce to the things I carry within myself. You are all such fools! But I am the biggest fool of all. To have believed that it could be otherwise... that it would make a difference... that I could....” He paused and inhaled deeply, surveying Granger with a glare and a jeer. “I would have no part in your attempts to make yourself feel better through self-indulgent salvage attempts that have already failed. Now torture me for information, if you will, or let me be.”

He sank to the edge of the bed gingerly. His head had begun to spin and breath was stuttering nervously in his chest. If Granger didn’t leave soon, she would catch him hyperventilating.

She snatched the parchment back. “I used to believe in you.... I believed that everyone was wrong and you _were_ on our side up until the very last moment.”

He opened his mouth. The truth, whether she chose to believe it or now, would change nothing. Her side, the Dark Lord’s.... They both blurred together in his head. The Dark Lord had killed Lily. Dumbledore had sent her son like a lamb to the slaughter. Besides, he had been rejected and suspect on both. Regardless of Granger’s own naive worldview she failed to live up to herself, there was nothing that could be done for him. His only escape had been death but that had been denied to him too.

“Is that how you wish to save me?” he said bitingly. “By keeping me as your household pet?”

“I was only trying to keep you out of the hands of someone who might truly hurt you?” she all but shouted, colour rising in her cheeks, her eyes bright. “You’re smart enough to realise everyone wanted a piece of you.”

He sneered. “Someone who might hurt me?” he replied silkily, dripping careful venom into his tone. “By casting the Cruciatus on me, you mean?”

All colour vanished from Granger’s cheeks. She whirled around and left the room without another word.

As the door closed behind her, Severus collapsed onto his knees on the carpet by the bed and began to dry heave.

# # #

Pansy locked herself in the bathroom in the back of the pastry shop. Her first month as a Muggle waitress was at an end and Malcolm had just paid her. She took out the envelope he had given her and stared at the stack of painted square sheets of paper Muggles called money. They looked ridiculous, made-up. Money was supposed to be heavy, burdened with importance and made of valuable metal. She had no idea of the corresponding sum in the wizarding world. Still it was the first money she had ever made herself. She had blisters on her hands and feet, and her calves and arms ached but she had earned this with her sweat and pain. It felt surprisingly good.

She finished for the day and declined Zahara’s invitation to dinner. She walked for a while on the bustling Muggle streets, pulling her coat around her body against the chilly evening air. The crispiness of autumn had permeated the atmosphere. Hogwarts and the world of magic seemed impossibly far away, like a distant, long lost dream.

She stopped by a tobacco store and bought a pack of Malboro Red and a lighter. She lit one on the corner of the street. She was only slightly discomfited that she thought she might prefer it to smoking the pipe.

# # #

Severus stood in the middle of the Hermione Granger’s glaringly clean kitchen, watching the coffee from his upturned cup splash to the floor. He had summoned his wand instinctively only to trigger the ache of the absence of his magic within his gut. The enchanted collar felt unnaturally heavy as it encompassed his neck.

Magic had been his recourse and escape his whole life. The one thing his father, the Marauders and his own mistakes failed to deprive him of. And now it was gone. The emptiness it had left behind threatened to swallow him whole. 

He looked at the puddle of coffee on the previously spotless floor. Granger’s cat was hissing in annoyance nearby. He ignored it... him... her... he couldn’t be sure. Unless she wanted information he mostly often than not lacked about those who had disappeared during the war, Granger avoided him like the plague. Which suited him just fine. Besides, being a leper was the one constant of his life. It had even outlived his magic.

Spitefully he reached and tipped the perfect, off-white with a golden leaf pattern cup off the edge of the counter. It didn’t even shatter on impact, merely chipping on the side. It matched his utter powerlessness. 

_You broke it, you stupid cunt!_

Severus blinked but, with no Occlumency walls to keep it at bay, the memory surged forward, nonetheless.

_You’re useless, that’s what you are! You’re only good at breaking the things I buy with my money. Because you don’t work. You don’t know how to do anything... you can only twiddle that pointless stick of yours around. You can’t even keep this dump clean!_

_His father’s arm went up and a split second later his fist connected with his Mum’s jaw sending her sprawling backwards._

_“Mummy,” silly, little Severus whined, drawing his father’s attention to him._

_“Why are you crying, you mewling little freak? C’me here.... I’ll give you something to cry about.”_

_“No, Tobias, please,” whimpered his mother helplessly._

_It was no use. His father grabbed Severus by one shoulder, lifting the small boy easily into the air before tossing him to the floor before his mud-caked boots. Then his father kicked Severus in the ribs. Severus started to cry, the sound of his sobs mixing in with his mother’s wails. His father struck him across the face. Pain burst from Severus’ lower lip and bloomed down his chin. He heard the clink of his father’s belt being undone._

_This was going to be bad. He had known it ever since Tobias had trudged in smelling profusely of fresh alcohol and old sweat._

_His father’s belt rained painful fire across Severus’ arms, legs and back. The only relief he got was when his father moved to hit his mother. Still Severus thought it was lucky his father had not gone for the whip this time._

_When his father’s breathing became ragged with effort, he cast the belt to the floor and grabbed Severus’ mother by the hair. He then proceeded to drag her up the stairs to the bedroom._

_The sounds that reverberated muffled from behind the closed bedroom door were truly horrific._

_Severus crawled across the dirty floor to where his father had discarded his belt. Like everything they owned, the belt was well worn and old, the leather flaking in places. He got up with a wince and put the belt in its place hung on the nail by the door. It would not do to have his father find still on the floor later. Or else he might decide Severus was due for another round._

_The next day, in Muggle school, the teacher asked him if he had been in a fight with the rest of the bad seed hooligans from Spinner’s End. When Severus said nothing instead looking at the floor awkwardly, as the class burst into laughter, so the teacher sent him to his usual seat at the back._

In the present, Severus glanced down at his hands. They were shaking, though his head was clear and pain free. His mind was beginning to get used to the lack of Occlumency. His stomach lurched at the thought and he clamped down on the mounting nausea, gritting his teeth.

He lowered himself to the floor and picked the damaged cup and the chunk of fine china that had fallen off it. His father would have whipped him bloody if he had done something like that as a child. He put the cup and its missing piece in the sink. Then before he could think better of it, he fished for a rag and cleaning supplies, and started to wipe the floor.

He got on his knees and scrubbed industriously, letting his mind go blank as though preparing for the Occlumency exercises he had failed to get Potter to do. In a bit of supreme irony, Severus himself would no longer do any of those, either.

He was no stranger to cleaning by hand. He had done it many times at Spinner’s End in a surreptitious and mostly ineffective attempt to compensate for his mother’s wanting homemaking skills and thus keep her safe from his father’s wrath. It had almost never worked. His father didn’t need a reason to beat him and his mother. He only needed the will to do so and that he never lacked.

He found a bit of errant dirt on the floor and rinsed his sopping rag then scoured at that as well. Soon he was polishing the entire floor until it sparkled to a degree of perfection not even Granger’s hired help could attain. Then he cleaned the counter, washed the sink and every bit of china and utensils he could get his hands on. He found some Loctite Superglue and mended the broken mug.

The fine line of the fissure was still visible when he held up the cup to the bright October sunlight spilling from the kitchen window. The lovely, little cup seemed whole otherwise safe for that small imperfection marring it forever. Everything beautiful broke in his hands, he realised, his thoughts filled with Lily’s emerald green eyes.

Then they morphed and switched until they sat in James Potter’s face.

_Look at me..._

Potter had looked but he had not seen.

His hands were trembling again, he noted. He gripped the cup harder to keep from dropping it but then he hesitated. It wasn’t even the most expensive china in Granger’s affluent home. He wouldn’t miss it if it were gone. Perhaps she would throw it away, not wanting its imperfection to spoil the flawlessness of her home. He looked again at the cup. The fissure did stick out.

He glanced around the kitchen. The rays of the setting sun emphasized its gleaming spotlessness. There was sweat cooling on Severus’ back and his arms arched from exertion. He was faintly dizzy and had skipped a potion. What was he doing? Cleaning Granger’s kitchen like a good little slave? Next thing he knew he would be cooking her meals for her.

He shut the window he had opened in order to air the room.

When he went upstairs, he took the formerly broken cup with him.

If Granger noticed his cleaning efforts, she never remarked on it. That night she came home earlier than usual and he could hear her puttering about in the kitchen for a while before the smell of burnt food reached his room.

Weasley arrived after a while and the couple’s traditional fight wasted no time in starting. They fought about her frustration with the preferential treatment she was receiving at the Ministry. They fought about his lack of frustration with the preferential treatment he was receiving within the Auror training programme. They fought about his unspoken frustration of lingering in the shadow of the Boy Who Lived and in that of the emerging one of Granger herself. They even fought about Severus himself and Granger’s decision to acquire and keep him.

Weasley slammed the door after himself some two hours later. In the deafening silence that ensured Severus could practically hear the crash of reality against expectations.

He had to admit even he had thought the winners would be happier.

# # #

In the morning, after Granger left for work, he found the messy vestiges of Granger’s failed attempt at making dinner all over the kitchen. Spaghetti stuck to the burnt bottom of a pot. The stove was filthy. There were unwashed dishes cluttering in the sink. And the remnants of the meal in the rubbish bin.

He went to up the stairs three times. And came down each time. He retreated to the library where he picked up a critical edition of Richard II but he couldn’t concentrate and he ended up putting it down after spending the better part of an hour on the same page.

The visit from Granger’s cleaning lady was two days away but the young witch could set the kitchen to rights with a few swishes of her wand. He absolutely refused to lower himself to this. As if there was something lower than being a de facto slave!

It was something to do, though. Something other than climbing the walls as he sunk into the sterility of his purposeless days.

This time Granger was bound to notice, he temporised. He did not relish the thought of the ensuing discussion. He could always bait and distract her, however. Gryffindors were easy to provoke and Granger herself had a hair-trigger ego.

The night before he had slept better than he had in weeks courtesy of the physical exertion. The oblivion of sleep was a luxury he would rather not do without.

He closed the book and stood up.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Pansy is hearing in the shop is Bullet with Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment with your thoughts. Good or bad, I hunger for it. :)


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